Digitized  by  tine  Internet  Arcliive 

in  2007  witli  funding  from 

l\/licrosoft  Corporation 


littp://www.arcliive.org/details/beautiesandacliieOOartmiala 


■I 


THE  BLIND 


vD 


1 

I  no 


li 


I 


^' 


o 

^/  o .— 


E 


to 

r: 


CO 


u 

K 


-    < 


K^    a    %jy 

C<)  I  — 


O 

o 

IT 


< 

(O 


< 


(.'J 


E 
«- 

(O 
(O 

/< 

N-s^ 

N 


a 

11 


u 


v^ 


,1: 


c 


^'  13^   C.^    ^  ^- 


^. 

<:- 

«— *- 

V 

i-.— 

<*- 

H 


Pi 


KJJ 


I  .     In'' 


BEAUTI E  S 


ACHIEYEMEWTS 


OP 


THE  BLIND 


BY  WM.  ARTMAN  AND  L.  V.  HALL 


'E'en  he  who,  sightless,  wants  bis  visnal  ray 
May  by  bis  touch  alone  award  the  day." 


ROCHESTER,  N.  T. 
PUBLISHED  FOR  THE  AUTHORS 

1874. 


ICDtered  ftoeordlng  to  Act  of  CongtMS. 

BY   WM.  ARTMAN  AND  i*  V.  HAU^ 
in  ttie  awkV  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  tha  Nortlieru  Dlsalct  of  N«»w  T««* 


k.  fe.  aMDrevb,  buck  and  job  rRiRTEii.    aocnE5TE&,  ti.  « 


^his  Volume 

iS  BESPECTFXn.L'^    INSCRIBED. 


CONTENTS. 


(ntrodnction,  .  .  .  .       ■    9 

Memoirs  of  Eminent  blind  Author^         ...  16 

Homer,  .  .  . .  ■         17 

Ossian,  .  .  .  .  .  .29 

Milton,  .......        48 

Rev.  Richard  Lucas,  D.  D.,  .  .  .  .  62 

T.  Carolan,  .       .  ,  .  ...  .68 

Thomas  Blacklock,  D.  D.,  .  .  .  TO 

Huber,  .         ,  .  .  ...  .84 

Holman,       .  .  .  .  .  .  .  102 

Wilson,  .         .  .  .  .  .  .116 

beauties  from  a  Blind  Man's  Offering,     .  .  .  128 

Mrs.  S.  fl.  DeKroyft,  ...  142 

Miss  Frances  Brown,         .  .  .  '  .  162 

Miss  Frances  Jane  Crosby,     .  ...  .  ,       168 

Miss  Cynthia  Bullock,     .  .  ,  .  .  .  180 

Miss  Daphne  S.  Giles,  ...  .192 

Miss  Alice  Holmes,  .  .  .  .  .  207 

Achievements  of  the  Blind  in  the  Learned  Professions : 

Section  L     Progress  in  the  Sciences,       .  .  .       217 

"       n.     Divines,  Lawyers  and  Physicians,  .  234 

Achievements  of  the  Blind  in  the  Industrial  Pursuits: 

Section  L     Mechanics,  ....        249 

"      IL     Miscellaneous  Occupations,  .  .  .   261 

Achievements  of  the  Blind  in  Poetry  and  Music  : 

Section  L  Some  explanation  of  the  method  by  which  th« 
Born  Blind  gain  a  knowledge  of  the  extension,  magni- 
tude and  appearance  of  distant  objects,  .  .       280 

Section  IL     Blind  Musicians,  .  .  299 


OONTENTS. 


■>A<ia 

Autobiographical  sketch  of  Lemuel  Rockwell, 

310 

Collected  Poems,  by  L.  V.  Hall,  and  other  blind  Authors: 

Reminiscences  of  Uncle  Toby, 

328 

Teresa,  or  the  Peasant  Mother. 

837 

View  of  the  Mind  released  from  Matter, 

839 

Thoughts  on  Creation,                 .             .             .             . 

840 

Love's  Chain,             .             .             .             *             . 

842 

Twilight  Shadows,         .              .             .             .              . 

343 

A  Fable,         ...... 

S44 

A  Fragment,        ...... 

860 

Reflections  in  Youth,             .              .             .             . 

860 

The  Voyage  of  Life — A  Song,                  .             .              , 

861 

Lines  written  on  the  first  of  April, 

852 

A  Legend,           ...... 

363 

The  llarper,               ,              .       •      . 

365 

Autumn,             ...... 

358 

The  Dying-Sister,     .              .              .              •             . 

859 

The  Forest  Tree,             .... 

860 

The  Voice  of  the  Sea,             .             ... 

362 

Thoughts  on  Niagara,     .... 

363 

The  Voice  of  the  Falling  Leaves,     . 

86. 

Blacklock's  Picture  of  himself,                 .              . 

.          36'r 

Epitaph  on  a  favorite  Lap-dog,          .             . 

369 

The  Young,         ..... 

.       369 

The  God  of  the  World, 

871 

The  Eclipse,       .             ... 

.       873 

Autumn,      .                          .... 

874 

Farewell  to  the  Flowers,             .             .             • 

.       876 

The  Last  of  the  Jagellons,                 .             . 

877 

Tlie  Spectre  of  the  Heartli,         .             .             . 

.       380 

The  Lonely  Mother,             .... 

381 

The  Friend  of  our  Darker  Dfi  "a,              .         .     . 

.      883 

We  are  growing  Old,            .             .             .             • 

3S4 

Songs  of  our-  Land,        .... 

88tf 

INTKODUCTIOH. 


Wk  will  not  weary  the  reader's  patience  with  an  elaborate 
prelini  jiary,  nor  w^ith  apologies  for  offering  the  present  work 
to  the  public.  We  have  been  induced  to  enter  the  arena  of 
bookmakers,  by  a  desire  to  disseminate  a  more  correct  and  ex 
tended  knowledge  of  blindness,  and  its  effects  upon  mental  and 
physical  development,  than  the  reading  public  has  hitherto  pos- 
sessed.  In  this  way  we  hope  to  remove  some  of  the  most  for- 
midable obstacles  that  hedge  up  the  way  to  usefulness  and 
independence,  for  all  who  are  placed  in  this  condition;  a  con- 
dition to  which,  by  the  vicissitudes  of  life,  every  person  is  ex 
posed,  and  in  whose  dark  and  inauspicious  night  more  than 
five  hundred  thousand  of  our  race  are  at  present  enshrouded 
In  almost  every  state  of  our  Union,  as  well  as  in  those  of  Eu 
rope,  Giarity,  with  her  angelic  hand,  has  raised  up,  within  the 
present  century,  institutions  dedicated  to  the  sacred  purpose  of 
giving  the  light  of  science,  and  a  knowledge  of  some  of  the 
usefiil  arts,  to  those  who  behold  not  the  beautifid  earth  and  the 
serene  sky.  But  sad  experience  has  taught  us,  that  until  soci 
ety  in  general  better  understands  and  appreciates  the  abilities' 
A* 


10  INTRODDCl'ION. 

of  the  blind,  all  the  knowledge  and  skill  we  can  acquire  at  these 
establishments,  are  not  available  as  means  of  self-support,  but 
tend  only  to  awaken  a  keener  sense  of  our  privation  and  de- 
pendence. To  illustrate  :  A  young  man  gi'aduates  at  one  of 
our  institutions  for  the  blind,  after  receiving  a  thorough  course 
of  instruction  in  the  theoretical  and  practical  sciences.  .Elated 
with  the  hope  of  henceforth  being  able  to  earn  for  himself  a 
respectable  livelihood,  as  a  teacher  of  music  or  of  some  other 
science,  he  hears  of  a  vacant  situation,  and  he  makes  the  ne- 
cessary appliciition,  but  is  informed  that,  as  he  cannot  see,  he 
cannot,  of  course,  discharge  the  requisite  duties.  The  next  time 
an  opportunity  offers  he  determines  to  go  in  person,  say  a  hun- 
dred miles,  and  in  winter,  too,  to  show  that  he  is  qualified.  If 
a  knowledge  of  music  is  required,  he  performs  with  proficiency ; 
if  of  literature,  philosophy  or  mathematics,  he  is  ready  and 
clear,  and  proves  himself  competent  to  the  discharge  of  all  the 
duties  of  the  employment  which  he  seeks.  But  the  idea  that 
one  who  can  see  is  more  serviceable  than  one  who  cannot,  still 
erects  an  impenetrable  wall  between  him  and  success.  And 
thus  the  prejudice  which  his  condition  creates,  opposes  him  on 
every  side. 

Without  hesitation  we  say,  that  all  the  most  painful  disad- 
vantages with  which  we  have  l)een  obliged  to  contend  under 
the  absence  of  sight,  have  arisen  entirely  fi-om  ignorance,  on 
the  part  of  community,  of  our  capabilities  and  resources.  Aiid 
why  all  this  incredulity  and  want  of  confidence  ?  Does  not  his- 
tory introduce  us  to  scores  of  individuals,  who  have  triumphed 
over  all  the  difficulties  of  blindness,  and  have  become  the  most 


INTBODUOTION.  1 1 

lilustrious  performers  and  instructors  of  their  age  ?     Reader 
peruse  our  work  with  candor,  then  answer. 

It  is  not  surprising  that  under  such  formidable  opposition  and 
depreciating  influences,  the  blind  themselves  have,  generall) 
speaking,  lost  sight  of  the  examples  which  their  illustrious  pre 
docessors  set  before  them,  and  have  adopted  the  degrading  sen 
timent  of — "  can't  do  anything."  Having  lust  all  confidence  in 
themselves,  they  beg  without  shame  or  compunction  of  con 
science,  and  advert  only  to  their  sightless  eyes  as  an  excuse  for 
choosing  this  disgraceful  method  of  protracting  life,  when  we 
need  not  tlie  sagacity  of  a  philosopher  to  discover  that,  in  ninety- 
nine  hundredths  of  these  cases,  their  dependence  might  be  more 
justly  attributed  to  a  want  of  industry  and  an  enterprising 
spirit,  and  perhaps  a  little  kindly  encouragement  on  the  part  of 
community.  Notwithstanding  the  magnanimous  efibrts  that 
have  been  made  to  elevate  the  social,  moral  and  intellectual 
condition  of  this  class,  we  find  an  appeal  to  sympathy  painfiilly 
prevalent  in  almost  all  their  transactions  with  society . 

We  need  but  turn  to  the  Prefaces  of  most  of  the  literary 
productions  of  the  blind,  to  discover  how  much  they  have  coun- 
tenanced the  igijorance  and  prejudice  so  prevalent  among  the 
public,  for  the  sake  of  obtaining  sympathy  where  they  despaired 
of  inspiring  confidence,  though  eminently  deserving.  For  ex- 
ample, we  quote  the  following:  "Any  one  familiar  with  the' 
process  of  composing,  and  particularly  of  writing  verses,  will 
understand  how  great  the  advantages  of  being  able  to  commit 
to  paper,  for  preservation  or  correction,  the  passages  inter- 
rupted from  day  to  day,  and  how  immense  the  labor  of  bear 


12  INTRODUCTION. 

iiifr  them,  in  fragments  or  in  whole,  in  the  memory,  through 
all  delays  and  interruptions.  Such  thoughts  disarm  our  criti 
cism,  where  seeming  haste  has  marred  the  rhythm  or  measure 
of  a  line,  or  left  some  link  of  fancy  loose." 

Such  remarks  are  as  erroneous  as  they  are  depreciating 
Had  not  Homer,  Ossian,  Milton,  Blacklock,  and  scores  of  others, 
composed  and  sung  their  immortal  verses  while  their  vision 
was  muffled,  deep  and  dark  as  the  drapery  of  night,  we  might 
DC  constrained  to  use  metaphysical  arguments  to  expose  the 
inconsistency  and  vagueness  of  such  methods  to  obtain  favor, 
and  ward  off  criticism.  But  they  seem  now  uncalled  for. 
Those  who  hew  and  carve  poetry,  as  a  toy-maker  whittles  out 
his  articles,  may  find  a  supply  of  stationery  a  sine  qua  non.  But 
a  true  poetic  spirit  or  genius  seems  never  to  have  depended 
upon  such  agents.  We  utterly  abominate  and  detest  every 
remark  or  insinuation  that  tends  to  hold  up  in  the  light  of  sym- 
pathy the  literary  effor's  of  a  class,  who  have  in  every  age  -woe 
the  fairest  laurels,  and  enriched  the  commonwealth  of  letters 
it  Las  been  oar  object  in  the  present  work,  to  point  out  to  th€ 
blind,  and  the  public  in  general,  the  achieving  abilities  of  oui 
order. 

Reason  as  well  as  experience  proclaims  to  us,  in  tones  un 
mistakable,  that  until  the  efibrts  of  the  blind  are  weighed  in  the 
balance  of  merit,  it  is  impossible  for  us  to  succeed  in  any  un- 
dertaking.  Sympathy,  like  the  atmosphere,  surrounds  us  on 
every  side,  but  like  this,  it  is  too  light  to  sustain  life.  To  ack- 
nowledge that  our  present  work  may  have  faults  and  iinpeifeo- 
*iona.  is  only  to  admit  that  it  has  been  produced  by  homan 


rNTBODUOnON.  19 

agency.  But  we  certivinly  cannot  ask  to  have  them  excused  or 
/overf  in  consequence  of  our  peculiar  condition.  No:  attribute 
them  to  our  ignorance,  carelessness  or  stupidity,  but  we  pnty 
thee,  reader  or  critic,  attribute  them  not  to  blmdness,  for  this  »»« 
must  deem  rather  an  advantage  than  an  inconvenience  iii  luu 
art  of  composition. 

Our  subject  is  one  of  which  so  many  false  notions  have  been 
entertained  and  disseminated  by  speculative  writers,  that  wo 
have  deemed  it  expedient  to  give  the  facts  we  wish- to  illustrate 
in  connection  with  the  lives  of  some  of  the  most  distinguished 
of  our  class,  as  we  could  in  such  connections  best  guard  against 
being  niisunderstood.  The  characters  we  have  chosen  are  from 
almost  every  age,  country,  occupation  and  class  of  society ;  so 
that,  though  we  have  dealt  somewhat  largely  in  biography,  we 
hope  that  the  facts,  ti'ials  and  triumphs  presented  may  still  pro- 
duce an  agreeable  variety.  The  questions  so  frequently  aske 
with  touching  pathos,  by  those  who  lose  their  sight  in  mature 
life, — "  Is  there  benevolence  in  this  world  ?  Must  charity  sup- 
ply my  wants?  Will  there  be  always  some  hand  to  lead  mel 
Have  the  blind  ever  a  home  in  any  heart?  Dues  .-uiything 
ever  cheer  them  ?  Are  their '  lives  always  useless  1  Is  there 
anything  they  can  do  1 " — these  interrogatories  are,  we  thinic, 
,erein  fully  answered.  To  accomplish  this  work,  we  have 
spared  no  time,  pains  nor  expense.  All  the  information  rel* 
tive  to  the  sightless  condition,  that  could  be  obtained  from  the 
records  of  our  Institutions  for  this  class,  was,  through  the  Kind- 
ness of  their  Principals,  placed  at  our  command ;  and  we  have 
imported  from  Europe  for  this  purpose,  numerous  valuable 


14  LNTBOUDCTION. 

works  written  by  the  blind,  never  before  possessed  by  an 
American  public.  From  these  writings,  as  from  many  others 
of  our  class,  we  have  made  a  sufficient  number  of  extracts  to 
put  beyond  question  the  literary  taste  and  capacity  of  oar 
order. 

It  is  frequently  not  uninteresting  to  the  reader,  to  know  some- 
iiing  of  the  author  whose  thoughts  he  is  perusing.  But  upon 
ihe  history  of  our  lives  we  shall  say  but  little.  The  principal 
scenes  of  life's  drama  in  which  we  have  acted,  during  our  short 
peregrinations  over  the  rugged  face  of  old  mother  earth,  are  sc 
much  like  those  of  our  class  in  general,  given  in  other  connec 
Kons,  that  we  shall  not  here  enter  into  detail.  We  will  there- 
bre  only  say,  for  the  satisfaction  of  the  curious,  that  we  were 
bom  in  Western  New  York,  somewhere  within  the  vicinity  of 
twenty-five  years  ago ;  that  Artman  lost  his  sight  at  the  age 
of  eighteen ;  that  Hall's  privation  was  congenital ;  that  we 
were  both  educated  at  the  New  York  Institution  for  the  Blind, 
and  have  for  the  last  four  or  five  years  been  endeavoring  to 
force  a  subsistence  fi'om  nature  and  society,  m  various,  and  of 
course  honorable,  occupations. 

If  this,  our  first  effort  in  a  literary  capacity,  should  find  fiivoi 
with  the  public,  more  firom  us  may  be  heard  hereafter.     . 

The  Autuorb. 

EaDsville,  , 


I^rljitknuiits  of  tlje  ^iiiil 


MEMOIRS  OF  EMmENT  BLmD  AUTHORS, 

WITH  BEAUTIES  FKOM  THEIR  WKITING8. 

That  man  must  indeed  be  depraved,  who  does  not 
discover  in  himself  some  reflection  of  a  divine  image, 
though  sin  may  have  blotted  and  mutilated  its  form. 
The  whole  field  of  science  does  not  open  up  to  the  mind 
a  more  pleasing  subject  for  contemplation,  or  one 
fraught  with  more  intense  interest,  than  the  study  of 
its  own  mysterious  nature.  What  are  the  elementa 
that  enter  into  its  composition  ?  Can  it  exist  as  distinct 
from  matter,  or  is  it  merely  the  result  of  physical  or- 
ganization, as  sound  is  the  result  of  vibration  ?  Is  the 
brain  only  a  system  of  organs,  conspiring  to  produce 
thought,  as  melody  is  produced  by  musical  instru- 
ments? How  did  the  mind  come  in  possession  of  its 
own  identity,  or  that  inward  consciousn'ess  of  a  sepa- 
rate existence  as  distinct  from  the  laws  of  nature 
which  silently  govern  matter?  How  does  it  put 
forth  volition  ?  In  what  way  do  outward  manifesta- 
tions awaken  painful  or  pleasant  emotions,  and  why 
should  it  possess  that  fearful  power  of  perverting  its 


16  BEAUTIES    OF   THE   BLIND. 

own  affections,  or  destroying  its  own  energies  ? 
These  are  themes  upon  which  every  contemplative 
mind  loves  to  dwell.  Speculative  philosophy  is, 
however,  not  without  its  attendant  evils ;  it  may  ri- 
pen into  rank  infidelity  if  not  carefully  guarded.  In- 
vestigations of  mental  phenomena  should  be  con- 
ducted with  a  prayerful  heart.  The  relations  which 
the  creature  sustains  to  its  Creator,  should  be  kept 
constantly  in  view,  and  no  apparent  discrepancy  or 
incongruity,  should  be  allowed  to  shake  our  faith  in 
the  wisdom  and  goodness  of  a  Supreme  Being. 

Next  to  an  earnest  and  careful  inquiry  after  God's 
revealed  will  to  man,  the  study  of  man  himself  is 
paramount  to  all  others.  He  who  best  knows  him 
self,  is  best  able  to  judge  others.  Yet,  without  re- 
vealed religion,  it  is  impossible  to  determine  what  is 
laudable  in  ourselves,  without  studiously  observing 
what  traits  of  character  are  lovely  or  hateful  in  oth- 
ers. Hence  it  happens,  that  biography  has  been  read 
and  admired  in  all  ages,  and  is  found  to  be  of  such 
vital  importance  to  the  young.  In  the  history  of  a 
great  and  good  man,  the  youth  finds  a  pattern  by 
which  he  may  mould  his  character.  It  is  much  easier 
to  imitate  good  examples,  than  to  act  well  from  wise 
suggestions.  ■  It  is  less  hazardous  to  follow  closely  in 
the  footsteps  of  a  virtuous  and  prudent  man',  whose 
path  has  led  to  honor  and  distinction,  than  to  mark 
out  for  one's  self  a  new  course  in  life. 

Trtta<\  you  my  steps  I     Tis  mine  to  lead  the  race. 
The  first  in  (;lory,  and  the  first  in  place. 


M  ACCOMT  OF  THE  LIFE  OF  HOMER. 

So  little  is  known  of  this  truly  great  man,  that  all 
our  most  anxious  inquiries  concerning  him,  have  been 
but  meagerly  rewarded.  The  vague  conjectures  of 
his  numerous  biographers,  serve  onlj  to  thicken  the 
haze  that  has  settled  over  his  long-since  faded  path- 
way. 

So  many  fabulous  accounts  have  been  given  of  this 
prince  of  poets,  by  his  early  biographers,  that  some 
rather  too  skeptical,  now  deny  even  his  existence. 
His  wonderful  poems,  however,  (the  Iliad  and  Odys- 
sey,) stand  as  monuments  of  his  true  greatness.  They 
are  voices  from  the  grave  of  the  past,  floating  on  the 
tide  of  time,  breathing  in  poetic  numbers  the  fire  of 
youth  and  the  frenzy  of  love.  The  most  reliable 
sources  of  information  concerning  Homer  are,  per- 
haps— Bibliotheca  Grseca,  by  Fabricus,  Wood's  Essay 
on  the  Genius  and  Writings  of  Homer,  Cumberland's 
Observer,  Lempriere's  Classical  Dictionary,  Herodo- 
tus, Plutarch,  and  the  Encyclopedia  Britannica. 

Various  opinions  have  been  entertained  respecting 

the  period  in  which  he  flourished,  the  place  of  his 

birth,  and  even  his  true   name.     These  have  been 

subjects  of  heated  controversies  among  the  leai'nedof 

all  ages. 

o 


18  BEAUTIES    OF    THE    BLLNU. 

In  the  most  important  events  of  his  life's  history' 
the  most  of  his  biographers  agree ;  namely,  that  he 
became  blind  early  in  life,  after  which  he  completed 
the  Iliad  and  composed  the  Odyssey  ;  was  a  wander- 
ing minstrel ;  that  the  age  in  which  he  lived  was  un- 
worthy of  so  great  a  genius ;  and  that  he  lived  and  died 
in  the  most  abject  poverty.  It  is  not  the  design  of 
the  preseAt  writers  to  hazard  any  conjectures  of  their 
own  respecting  the  age  in  which  he  lived,  or  which 
of  the  seven  illustrious  cities  —  Smyrna,  Colophon, 
Chios,  Salamis,  Rhodes,  Argos,  or  Athenea,  had  the 
honor  of  giving  birth  to  so  great  a  prodigy  ;  nor  will 
we  here  offer  any  comments  upon  his  merits.  Some 
suppose  Homer  to  have  flourished  three  hundred  and 
forty  years  after  the  siege  of  Tro}^ ;  but  according  to 
Herodotus  about  one  hundred  and  sixty-eight  years, 
and  six  hundred  and  twenty-two  years  before  the  ex- 
pedition of  Xerxes. 

The  place  of  his  nativity  is  not  certainly  knowu 
But  the  most  prevalent  opinion  among  historians  ia^ 
that  he  was  born  at  Smyrna,  nine  hundred  years  be- 
fore the  Christian  era.  His  mother's  name  was  Cry- 
theis,  an  orj^han  left  to  the  care  of  one  Cleonies,  her 
father's  friend,  by  whom  she  was  seduced.  This 
coming  to  the  knowledge  of  her  guardian,  he  was. 
anxious  to.  conceal  it,  and  accordingly^  sent  her  to 
Smyrna.  Crytheis.  being  near  her  time,  went  one 
day  to  a  festival  which  the  inhabitants  were  celebra- 
ting on  the  banks  of  the  river  Melis,  where  she  was 
delivered  of  the  immortal  Homer,  whom  she  named 


noMER.  19 

Melesigencs.  Crytheis  was  afterwards  married  to 
Phemius,  a  teacher  of  music  and  literature  in  Smynia, 
who  likewise  adopted  her  son,  and  soon  found  in  hira 
marks  of  extraordinary  genius.  After  the  death  of 
Phemius,  Homer  was  left  to  the  management  of  his 
father's  school ;  but  he  was  soon  after  induced  to  era- 
bark  on  a  voyage  with  a  person  named  Mentes. 
Having  then  commenced  writing  his  Iliad,  he  was 
anxious  to  visit  the  places  he  should  have  occasion  to 
mention  ;  and  he  accordingly  traveled  through  all 
GreQce,  Asia  Minor,  and  many  other  places.  From 
Egypt  he  brought  the  names  of  all  their  gods,  tho 
chief  ceremonies  of  their  religion,  and  a  more  im- 
proved knowledge  of  the  arts. 

He  next  sailed  to  Africa  and  Spain,  and  on  his  re- 
turn touched  at  Ithaca,  where  he  was  detained  for 
some  time  with  a  disease  of  the  eye,  which  ended  ul- 
timately in  total  blindness.  Here  he  was  hospitably 
entertained  by  a  friend  of  Mentes,  named  Mentor,  a 
man  of  wealth,  from  whom  he  learned  many  things 
relating  to  Ulysses,  which  he  afterward  made  use  of 
in  composing  his  Odyssey. 

Mentes,  on  his  return  to  Ithaca,  took  Homer  with 
him  to  Colophon;  from  thence  he  returned  to  Smyrna. 
Being  now  reduced  to  the  most  extreme  want,  and 
still  cherisliing  tlie  fond  hope  that  something  might 
yet  be  done  to  restore  his  sight,  our  poet  removed  to 
Cuma.  Here  he  was  received  with  great  joy,  and 
his  poems  highly  applauded.  But  when  he  proposed 
to  '.mmortalize  their  city  by  writing  a  poem  in  its 


'iO  BKAUTllUi    Olf   THE    liLlNU. 

praise,  on  condition  that  he  should  be  supported  by 
the  public  treasury  by  an  annual  income,  he  was  tol 
!;liere  would  be  no  end  of  maintaining  the  Homeroi 
or  blind  men.  From  this  he  received  the  name  Ho 
mer.  Findino-his  generous  offer  so  ill  deserved  bv  the 
citizens  of  Cuma,  he  left  that  city,  uttering  this  im- 
precation :  "  May  no  poets  ever  be  born  in  Cuma  to 
celebrate  it  by  tlieir  poems."  He  afterward  wandered 
for  several  years  from  place  to  place,  as  a  minstrel, 
and  finally  settled  at  Chios,  where  he  established  a 
school  of  poetry,  and  composed  his  Odyssey.  From 
this  he  realized  a  small  profit,  married,  and  had  two 
daughters,  one  of  whom  died  young ;  the  other  be- 
came the  wife  of  a  very  dear  friend  at  Bolyssus. 
Having  now  determined  to  visit  Athens,  he  embarked 
in  a  vessel  for  that  city,  but  was  driven  on  the  Island 
of  Samos,  where  he  spent  the  winter  singing  at  the 
houses  of  the  great,  for  a  bare  subsistence.  On  the 
opening  of  spring  he  again  set  sail  for  Athens ;  but, 
landing  by  the  way  at  los,  he  fell  sick,  died,  and  was 
buried  on  the  sea  shore. 

"Narrow  is  thy  dwelling  now. 
Dark  the  place  of  thine  abode 
Deep  is  the  sleep  of  the  dead. 
Low  their  pillow  of  rest. 
When  shall  it  be  morn  in  the  gravel 
To  bid  the  slumberer  awake." 

Osaian. 

According  to  some  Grecian  traditions,  both  the 
Iliad  and  Odyssey  were  written  by  Homer  after  his 
blindness.     Longiuus,  an  eminent  Greek  critic  and 


fiOMER.  21 

philosopher,  compares  the  former  to  the  mid-day,  and 
the  latter  to  the  setting  sun  ;  and  observes,  "  that 
though  the  Iliad  claims  an  uncontested  superiority 
over  the  Odyssey ;  yet,  in  the  latter,  the  same  force, 
the  same  sublimity  and  elegance  prevail,  though  di- 
vested of  their  most  powerful  fire  ;  and  that  it  still 
preserves  its  original  splendor  and  majesty,  though 
ieprived  of  its  meridian  heat." 

These  two  celebrated  poems  are  so  frequently  met 
rith  in  this  land  of  books,  and  so  universally  admired, 
that  wliatever  we  might  here  offer  in  praise  of  their 
author's  wonderful  inventive  powers,  the  purity  of 
liis  style  and  his  godlike  conceptions,  would  seem 
superfluous.  He  has  been  very  justly  called  the 
father  of  Epic  Poetry.  So  charmed  was  Alexander 
the  Great  with  his  compositions,  that  he  commonly 
placed  them,  together  with  his  sword,  under  his  pil- 
low. The  Iliad  he  carefully  deposited  in  one  of  the 
most  valuable  caskets  of  Darius,  in  o.^der,  said  he  to 
jiis  courtiers,  "that  the  most  perfect  production  of  the 
human  mind,  may  be  enclosed  in  the  richest  casket 
in  the  world."  It  is  related  of  Alcibiades,  that  he 
once  gave  a  rhetorician  a  sound  box  on  the  ear,  for 
not  having  the  writings  of  Homer  in  his  school.  The 
Battle  of  the  Frogs  and  Mice,  and  several  epigrams, 
have  been  ascribed  to  him  ;  but  tlie  most  probable 
opinion  is,  that  there  are  none  of  his  writings  now 
extant,  except  the  Iliad  and  Odyssey. 

By  many  of  the  ancients.  Homer  was  worshiped 
aa  a  Divinity,  and  Sacrifices  were  offered    to  him. 


BKAUTIES    OF   THE    iiL.iis±j. 


But  not  until  after  his  death  did  fame  breathe  aloud 
his  praise.  It  has  since  been  echoed  through  each 
succeeding  age,  by  applauding  millions.  "  Our  au- 
thor's work,"  says  Mr.  Pope,  "is  a  wild  paradise, 
where,  if  we  cannot  see  all  the  beauties  so  distinctly 
as  in  an  ordered  garden,  *it  is  only  because  the  num- 
ber of  them  is  infinitely  greater.  It  is  like  a  copious 
nursery,  which  contains  the  seeds  and  first  produc- 
tions of  every  kind,  out  of  which  those  who  followed 
him  have  but  selected  some  particular  plants,  each 
according  to  his  fancy,  to  cultivate  and  beautify.  K 
some  things  are  too  luxuriapt,  it  is  owing  to  the  rich- 
ness of  the  soil ;  and  if  others  are  not  arrived  to  per- 
fection or  maturity,  it  is  only  because  they  are  over- 
run and  oppressed  by  those  of  a  stronger  nature." 
In  speaking  of  the  growing  interest  of  the  Iliad,  and 
the  poet's  fancy,  he  says  :  "  It  is,  however,  remarka- 
ble that  his  fancy,  which  is  everywhere  vigorous,  is 
not  discovered  immediately  at  the  beginning  of  his 
poem  in  its  fullest  splendor :  it  grows  in  tlie  progress, 
both  on  himself  and  others,  and  becomes  on  fire,  like 
a  chariot  wheel,  by  its  own  rapidity.  Exact  disposi- 
tion, just  thoufirht,  correct  elocution,  polished  num- 
bers, may  have  been  found  in  a  thousand  ;  but  this 
poetic  fire,  this  '  vivida  vis  animi,'  in  a  very  few." 

The  inimitable  writings  of  Homer,  as  translated  by 
Pope,  we  have  read  with  enthusiastic  delight.     How- 
it  is  that  the  blind  can  derive  any  degree  of  satisfac- 
tion from  descriptive  poetry,  has  long  been  a  subject 
of  speculation  and  (^oubt.     Nor  can  we  reflect  much 


HOMTSR.  28 

light  upon  it.  How  u  is  that  one  who  has  never  seen 
light  and  color,  is  able  to  form  any  conception  of  dis- 
tance, or  extent  beyond  his  reach,  or  of  brilliant  ob' 
jects,  as  the  moon  and  stars,  of  the  rainbow  or  the 
landscape,  must  remain,  to  the  seeing,  enigmatical. 
We  can  no  more  describe  to  you,  fortunate  reader, 
the  light  which  our  own  fancy  sheds  around  objects, 
by  which  our  minds  take  cognizance  of  them,  than 
you  can  'describe  to  us  the  clear  light  of  the  sun,  or 
how  it  pictures  upon  your  mind  the  objects  from 
which  it  is  reflected. 

It  may  not  be  uninteresting  to  those  of  our  readers 
who  have  followed  us  thus  far,  to  give  in  this  connec- 
tion, a  brief  description  (however  vague  and  imper- 
fect) of  our  own  feelings  on  reading  the  wonderful 
productions  of  Homer.  As  our  reader  gives  rapid 
and  distinct  utterance  to  each  happily  applied  word, 
and  as  each  complete  sentence  conveys  to  the  mind 
its  full  import,  every  picture  drawn  by  the  immortal 
poet  lies  before  us,  glowing  with  its  own  poetic  fire, 
and  busy  with  life.  Every  active,  moving  and 
breathing  image  passes  in  quick  succession  before  our 
view,  and  at  their  respective  distances  from  each 
other.  Entirely  wrapped  within  ourselves,  and  ex- 
cluded from  meaner  objects  without,  we  are  borne 
unconsciously  and  irresistibly,  on  the  wings  of  fancy, 
to  the  scenes  so  vividly  described.  Our  reader  is 
transported  with  us,  and  performs  a  conspicuous  part 
in  the  drama.     He  )<<  successively  transformed  in  the 


24  BEAUTIES   OF  THE   BLIND. 

several  characters ;    and  every  word  he  articulates, 
grows  with  significance  as  the  scene  heightens. 

The  writings  of  Homer  must  ever  stand  an  inde- 
structible monument  of  his  deathless  fame  :  a  sublime 
structure  so  well  proportioned  in  all  its  parts,  and  so 
sacred  to  genius,  that  it  is  almost  sacrilege  to  tear 
from  it  relics  of  artistic  skill. 


FROM  THE  EIGHTH  BOOK  OF  THE  ILIAD. 

Jupiter  assembles  the  gods,  and  commands  them 
not  to  assist  either  armj.  Minerva,  however,  obtains 
his  consent  to  aid  the  Greeks.  He  afterwards  de- 
scends to  Mount  Ida,  and  balances  the  fate  of  the 
Greeks  and  Trojans.  For  force  and  dignity,  this  de- 
scription excels  everything  we  have  yet  read.  The 
most  perfect  creations  of  modern  degenerate  genius, 
are  mere  pigmies  when  compared  with  this  giart  — 
tliis  twin-brother  of  perfection. 

Aurora  now,  fair  daughter  of  the  dawn. 
Sprinkled  with  rosy  light  the  dewy  lawn, 
When  Jove  convened  the  senate  of  the  skies. 
Where  high  Olympus'  cloudy  tops  arise. 
The  sire  of  gods  his  awful  silence  broke, 
The  heavens,  attentive,  trembled  as  he  spoke  : 

"Celestial  states,  immortal  godsl  give  earl 
Hear  our  decree,  and  reverence  what  ye  hear  I 
Tlie  fix'd  decree,  wliich  not  all  heaven  can  move , 
Thou,  Fate!  fulfill  it;  and,  ye  powers,  approve 
What  god  but  enters  yon  forbidden  field. 
Who  yields  assistance,  cr  but  wills  to  yield. 


HOMER.  *  9* 

tynek  to  the  skies  with  shame  he  shall  be  driven, 

fJash'd  with  dishonest  wounds,  the  scorn  of  heaven : 

Or  far,  oh  I  far,  from  steep  Olympus  thrown, 

Low  in  tlie  dark  Tartarean  gulf  shall  groan, 

With  burning  chains  fixed  to  the  brazen  floors. 

And  lock'd  by  hell's  inexorable  doors ; 

As  deep  beneath  the  infernal  center  hurl'd. 

As  from  tliat  center  to  the  ethereal  world. 

Let  him  who  tempts  me  dread  those  dire  abodes , 

And  know,  the  Almighty  is  the  god  of  gods. 

League  all  your  forces  then,  ye  powers  above, 

Join  all,  and  try  the  omnipotence  of  Jove: 

Let  down  our  golden,  everlasting  chain. 

Whose  strong  embrace  holds  heaven,  and  earth,  and  main 

Strive  all,  of  mortal,  and  immortal  birtli. 

To  drag,  by  this,  the  Thunderer  down  to  eai-th 

Ye  strive  in  vain  I     If  I  but  stretch  this  hand, 

1  heave  the  gods,  the  ocean,  and  the  land; 

I  fix  th«  chain  to  great  Olympus'  height. 

And  the  vast  world  hangs  trembling  in  my  sight! 

For  such  I  reign,  unbounded  and  above ; 

And  such  are  men  and  gods  compared  to  Jove." 

Th'  Vlmip^'^v  spoke,  nor  durst  the  powers  reply, 

A  reverena  norror  silenced  all  the  sky  : 

Ti-emWing  th«j-  stood  before  their  sovereign's  look ; 

At  lengtli  his  best  beloved,  the  power  of  wisdom  spoke: 

"Oh,  first  and  greatest!  god  by  gods  adored  I 
We  own  thy  might,  our  father  and  our  lord  1 
But,  ah  !  peraiit  to  pity  human  state  ; 
If  not  to  help,  at  least  lament  their  fate. 
From  fields  forbidden  we  submiss  refrain, 
With  arms  unaiding  mourn  our  Argives  slain  ; 
Yet  grant  my  counsels  still  their  breasts  may  move. 
Or  all  must  perish  in  the  wrath  of  Jove." 

Tlie  cloud-compelling  god  her  suit  approved. 
And  smiled  superior  on  his  best  beloved : 
Tlten  called  his  coursers,  and  his  chariot  took ; 
The  steadfast  firmament  beneath  them  shook : 
B 


29  BEAUTIES   OF   THE   BTTJTD. 

Rapt  by  th'  ethereal  steeds  the  chariot  roUM; 
Brass  were  their  hoofs,  their  curling  manes  of  {/•oIA 
Of  heaven's  undrossy  gold  the  god's  array, 
Refulgent,  flash'd  intolerable  day. 
High  on  the  throne  he  anines :  his  coursers  fly 
Between  th'  extended  earth  and  starry  sky. 
But  when  to  Ida's  topmost  height  he  came, 
(Fair  nurse  of  fountains  and  of  savage  game,) 
Where,  o'er  her  pointed  summits  proudly  raised. 
His  fane  breathed  odors,  and  his  altars  blazed : 
Tliere  from  his  radiant  car  the  sacred  sire 
Of  gods  and  men  released  the  steeds  of  fire  ; 
Blue  ambient  mists  th'  immortal  steeds  embraced . 
High  on  the  cloudy  point  his  seat  he  placed  ; 
Thence  his  broad  eye  the  subject  world  surveys. 
The  town,  and  tents,  and  navigable  seas. 

Now  had  the  Grecians  snatch'd  a  short  repast, 
And  buckled  on  their  shining  arms  with  haste. 
Troy  roused  as  soon ;  for  on  this  dreadful  day 
Tlie  fate  of  fathers,  wives,  and  infants  lay. 
The  gates  unfolding  pour  forth  all  their  train  ; 
Squadrons  on  squadrons  cloud  the  dusky  plain : 
Men,  steeds,  and  chariots  shake  the  trembling  groiux^ 
The  tumult  thickens,  and  the  skies  resound. 
And  now  with  shouts  the  shocking  armies  closed. 
To  lances,  lances,  shield"  to  shields  opposed ; 
Host  against  host  with  shadowy  legions  drew, 
The  sounding  darts  in  iron  tempests  flew  ; 
Victors  and  vanquish'd  join  promiscuous  cries. 
Triumphant  shouts  and  dying  groans  arise : 
With  streaming  blood  the  slippery  fields  are  dj'ed. 
And  slaughtered  heroes  swell  the  dreadful  tide. 
Long  as  the  morning  beams  increasing  bright. 
O'er  heaven's  clear  azure  spread  the  sacred  light : 
Commutual  death  the  fate  of  war  confounds. 
Each  adverse  battle  gored  with  equal  wounas. 
But  when  the  sun  the  height  of  heaven  ascendm 
The  sire  of  gods  his  goiden  scales  suspends 


HOMER.  27 

• 
With  equal  hand :  m  these  explored  the  fate 
Of  Greece  and  Troy,  and  poised  the  mighty  weight 
Press'd  with  its  loatl,  U'«  Orecian  balance  lies 
Low  sunk  on  earth,  tlie  Trojan  strikes  the  skies. 
Then  Jove  from  Ida's  top  his  horror  spreads ; 
The  clouds  burst  dreadful  o'er  the  Grecian  heads : 
Thick  lightnings  flash  ;  the  muttering  thunder  rolls, 
Their  strength  he  withei-s,  and  unmans  their  souls. 
Before  his  wrath  the  trcinl'fing  hosts  retire  ; 
The  gods  in  terror,  and  Ihu  «ki«a  on  fire. 

In  the  eighth  book  of  the  Odyssey,  Homer  alludes 
o  his  condition,  if  not  to  himself,  in  the  person  of 
Demodocns.  The  picture  is  by  no  means  a  sad  one, 
nor  is  the  immortal  bard  made  to  feel  his  blindness  a 
disgrace,  or  to  regret  his  loss  of  sight,  by  the  neglect 
of  hjs  friends.  The  most  distinguishing  honors  are 
paid  him  by  the  king  and  his  courtiers. 

Be  there  Demodocus  the  bard  of  fame. 

Taught  by  tlie  gods  to  please,  when  high  he  sings 

The  vocal  lay,  responsive  to  the  jstrings. 

In  entertaining  Ulysses,  the  royal  guest  of  Alcinoiis, 
the  blind  bard  is  deemed  indispensable  : 

The  herald  now  arrives,  and  guides  along 

The  sacred  master  of  celestial  song  : 

Dear  to  the  muse  !  who  gave  his  days  to  flow 

With  mighty  blessings,  mixed  with  mighty  wo; 

With  clouds  of  darkness  quench'd  his  visual  ray, 

But  gave  him  skill  to  raise  the  loft}'  lay. 

High  on  a  radiant  throne  sublime  in  state, 

Encircled  by  huge  multitudes,  he  sate  : 

With  silver  shone  tlie  throne :  his  lyre  well  strung 

To  rapturous  sounds,  at  hand  Pontinus  hung ; 

Before  his  seat  a  polish'd  table  shines. 

And  a  full  goblet  foams  with  generous  wines , 


28  BEAUTIES   OF   THE    BLIND. 

• 
His  food  a  herald  bore  :  and  now  they  fed ; 
And  now  the  rage  of  craving  hunger  fleiL 
Then  fired  by  all  the  mnse,  aloud  he  sings 
The  mighty  deeds  of  demigods  and  kings. 

Again : 

The  bard  a  herald  guides:  tiie  gazing  throng 
Pay  low  obeisance  as  he  moves  along  : 
Beneath  a  sculptured  arch  he  sits  enthroned. 
Then  peers  encircling  form  an  awful  round- 
Then  from  the  chine,  Ulysses  carves  with  K* 
Delicious  food,  an  honorary  part: 

"This  lot  the  master  of  tlie  lyre  receive, 
A  pledge  of  love  1  'tis  all  a  wretch  can  give. . 
Lives  there  a  man  beneath  the  spacious  skies 
Who  sacred  honors  to  the  bard  denies? 
The  muse  the  bard  inspires,  exalts  his  mind  : 
The  muse  indulgent  loves  th'  harmonious  kind. 

The  lierald  to  his  hand  the  charge  conveys, 
Not  fond  of  flattery,  nor  unpleased  with  praiss. 

When  now  the  rage  of  hunger  was  allay'd. 
Thus  to  the  lyrist  wise  Ulyssea  said : 
"Oh,  more  than  man!  thy  soul  the  muse  inspire* 
Or  Phoebus  animates  with  all  his  fires  : 
For  who  by  Phoebus  uninforra'd,  could  know 
The  woe  of  Greece,  and  sing  so  well  the  woe  • 
Just  to  the  tale,  as  present  at  the  fray. 
Or  taught  the  labors  of  the  dreadful  day : 
The  song  recalls  past  horrors  to  my  eyes, 
And  bids  proud  Ilion  from  he?  ashes  rise. 
Once  more  harmonious  strike  the  sounding  string 
The  Epjen  fabric  framed  bj'  Pallas,  sing : 
How  stern  Ulysses,  furious  to  destroy. 
With  latent  heroes  sack'd  imperial  Troy. 
If  faitliful  thou  record  the  tiiie  of  fame. 
The  god  himself  inspires  thy  breast  with  flame ; 
And  mine  shall  be  the  task  henceforth  to  raise 
In  every  land  thy  monument  of  praise." 


OSSIANJIIE  CELTIC  BARD. 

It  is  to  us  a  source  of  no  small  satisfaction,  as 
it  must  be  to  every  blind  person  who  has  a  philan- 
thropic zeal  for  the  honor  and  elevation  of  his  or- 
der, to  find  so  many  characters  laboring  under  the 
same  privation,  in  every  period  of  man's  history,  who 
have  walked  triumphantly  the  path  of  fame.  Of  all 
the  antique  literature  that  has  withstood  the  ravages 
of  time,  and  at  the  present  day  enriches  the  common- 
wealth of  letters,  there  is  none  more  justly  claiming 
our  admiration,  than  the  poems  of  this  illustrious 
Celtic  bard.  As  the  meteor  shoots  through  blackest 
night,  and  pours  its  glaring  light  over  torrents  wild, 
rocky  cliff,  and  ocean  surge,  so  do  tne  works  of  this, 
and  tlie  Grecian  poet,  shine  forth  with  traiisceudent 
luster  through  all  succeeding  ages. 

But  as  the  venerable  Ossian  flourished  in  an  age 
when  traditional  songs  supplied  the  place  of  written 
history,  we  can  learn  nothing  of  his  long  and  event- 
ful life,  save  the  few  particulars  we  gather  from  his 
poems.  So  little  do  we  know  of  him,  that  even  the 
era  of  his  life  has  long  been  a  subject  of  dispute.  But 
from  the  incidents  which  the  poet  mentions,  identical 
in  Roman  and  other  authentic  histories,  we  think  it 


80  BEAUTIES    OF   THE   BLDJD. 

may  be  decided  without  doubt  to  have  been  in  tno 
latter  part  of  the  third  century.  In  this  we  agree 
with  McPhereon,  the  translator,  and  Rev.  Dr.  Blair, 
the  reviewer,  of  these  sublime  poems.  Ossian  was 
the  last  of  a  line  of  kings  renowned  in  their  time  for 
magnanimity  and  heroism  in  war,  and  clemency  and 
magnificence  in  peace,  who  held  dominion  over  Mor- 
ven,  a  kingdom  comprising  that  mountainous  section 
of  country  lying  along  the  north-west  coast  of  Scot- 
land. Fingal,  his  father,  is  represented  to  us  as  a 
true  hero ;  though  terrible  in  battle,  he  displayed 
many  of  those  ennobling  graces  found  in  civilized  life. 
His  ancestors,  Trathal  and  Trenmor,  are  also  por- 
trayed in  song,  possessing  such  manly  virtues  as 
make  us  foi-get  that  they  lived  in  a  peiiod  when  hu- 
manity was  disgraced  at  E-ome,  and  heathen  dark- 
ness, like  the  dusky  curtains  of  night,  spread  over 
the  ea?'th. 

The  following  advice  of  Fingal  to  his  grandson, 
Oscar,  (son  of  Ossian,)  concerning  his  conduct  in 
peace  and  war,  is  an  example  of  true  generosity,  wor- 
thy of  the  rno&t  refined  age  :  "  O  Oscar,  pride  of 
youth.  I  saw  the  shining  of  the  sword.  I  gloried 
in  my  race.  Pursue  the  fame  of  our  fathers ;  be  thou 
what  they  have  been,  when  Trenmor  lived,  the  first 
of  men,  and  Trathal,  the  father  of  heroes !  They 
fought  the  battle  in  their  youth.  They  are  the  song 
of  bards.  O  Oscar !  bend  the  strong  in  arm ;  but 
spare  tlie  feeble  hand.  Be  thou  a  stream  of  many 
tides  against  the  foes  of  thy  people  ;  but  like  the  gale 


OS8IAN.  81 

that  moves  the  grass,  to  those  who  ask  thine  aid.  So 
Trenrnor  lived  ;  such  Trathal  was  ;  and  such  has  Fin- 
gal  been." 

"While  tlie  fire  of  youth  inspired  the  heroic  heart 
of  Fingal,  his  military  aid  was  solicited  by  Cormac, 
king  of  Ireland,  to  quell  the  insurrection  and  usurpa- 
tion of  Colculla,  chief  of  Atha,  where  he  fell  in  love 
with  and  took  to  wife  Rosecanna,  daughter  of  Cor- 
mac, who  became  the  mother  of  our  poet.-  If  the 
long-established  maxim  is  true,  that  the  first  striking 
event  and  impressions  in  one's  existence,  give  the 
leading  impulse  to  character,  it  was  but  natural  that 
Oasian  should  become  a  great  poet  and  musician. 
The  wild,  animating,  and  heroic  songs  of  the  thousand 
bards  that  crowded  the  halls  of  Selma,  during  the  life 
and  triumphant  career  of  his  father,  were  perhaps  the 
first  sounds  that  greeted  his  ear,  and  formed  the  lul- 
laby of  his  early  years.  It  4ias  been  the  well-founded 
opinion  of  our  ablest  modern  literary  persons,  that  an 
age  of  uncivilization,  when  the  passions  and  feelings 
of  men  are  in  unrestrained  exercise,  is  more  favora- 
ble to  poetry  than  one  of  nice  refinement,  when  the 
intellect  bows  to  the  deity  of  arbitrary  rules.  So 
prevalent  has  this  opinion  become  among  the  literati 
of  our  day,  that  we^not  unfrequently  hear  the  period 
known  in  ancient  history  as  "  the  dark  ages,"  classi- 
cally termed  the  age  of  poetry. 

Tlie  method  of  transmitting  history  and  heroic  fame 
to  future  times,  through  poems  or  traditional  songs, 
which  nearly  all  the  nations  of  antiquity  adopted  be 


32  BEADTIliB    OF   THE    BLIND. 

fore  the  art  of  writing  became  prevalent,  aflf'irded  a 
powerful  incentive  to  the  exaltation  of  poetic  genius. 
A  skillful  bard,  familiar  with  the  liistory  of  heroes, 
and  able  to  poetize  with  luster  what  was  deemed  no- 
ble and  generous  in  character,  was  ever  greeted  with 
cordiality  at  the  mansions  of  the  great,  and  flattered 
at  kingly  courts.  We  are  informed  that  the  ancient 
Spartans  were  so  prejudiced  in  favor  of  transmitting 
their  laws  and  panegyrics  in  this  way,  that  they  never 
would  allow  them  to  be  committed  to  writing.  The 
Germans  also  preserved  monuments  of  their  antique 
history,  and  transmitted  them  orally  to  quite  a  mod- 
ern date,  by  couching  into  verse  the  elegies  of  their 
heroes  and  chief  national  transactions. 

But  especially  did  poetic  genius  obtain  great  pop- 
ularity among  the  Celtic  tribes.  Living  a  roving  and 
indolent  life,  their  highest  entertainment  in  peace, 
was  to  gather  around  the  burning  oak,  or  sit  in  the 
balls  of  their  fathers,  and  listen  to  the  praises  and  ex- 
ploits of  their  heroes,  from  the  lips  of  bards  ;  and  in 
war,  these  poets  rehearsed  the  deeds  of  their  ances- 
tors to  inspire  the  chiefs  with  heroic  fire.  Their 
greatest  incentive  to  noble  deeds  was  to  receive  their 
fame  ;  that  is,  to  become  worthy  of  being  celebrated 
in  the  songs  of  bards  ;  and  to  have  their  name  on  the 
four  gray  stones.  To  die  unlamented  by  a  bard,  -vaa 
deemed  so  great  a  misfortune  as  even  to  disturb  ..leir 
ghosts  in  .another  state.  "They  wander  in  thick 
mists  beside  the  reedy  lake ;  but  never  shall  thej 
rise,  without  the  song,  to  the  dwelling  of  winds." 


^81  AN.  33 

Julius  Csesar  informs  us,  that  this  class  of  men 
comprised  many  of  the  first  rank,  possessing  superior 
talents,  highly  respected  in  state,  and  was  supported 
by  public  establishment.  So  thorough  a  knowledge 
of  ancient  historical  poetry  was  requisite,  before  be 
ing  initiated  into  this  order,  that,  with  many,  a  coui*se 
of  diligent  study  for  a  term  of  twenty  years  was  re- 
quired,* In  this  way  the  Celtic  bards  transmitted, 
as  a  sacred  charge,  their  poems  through  successive 
generations.  Consequently,  we  not  unfrequently  hear 
them  termed,  in  ancient  verse,  the  sons  of  future 
times.  Their  persons  were  held  so  inviolable,  that 
they  were  ever  secure  against  personal  outrage  from 
foes.  "  lie  feared  to  stretch  his  sword  to  the  bards, 
though  his  soul  was  dark."  When  this  institution 
had  attained  to  its  meridian  excellence,  and  the  cap 
ital  of  Morven  was  enriched  and  embellished,  to  a 
deorree  of  maornificence  before  unknown  among  the 
nations  of  north-western  Europe,  the  voice  and  harp 
of  Ossian  woke  their  echoes  m  the  halls  of  Selma, 
the  first  among  a  thousand  bards.  The  heroic  splen- 
dor and  peculiar  institutions  of  Ossian's  age,  formed 
a  conjunction  of  circumstances  highly  favorable 
towards  developing  a  poetic  spirit.  "  Ossian  him- 
self," says  Dr.  Blair,  "  appears  to  have  been  endowed 

*  Under  an  institution  like  this,  it  is  not  strange  that  the  best  po- 
ems produced  and  preserved  of  those  times,  were  the  compositions 
of  l)lind  bards.  Their  extraordinary  concentrative  and  r'^tentive 
powei-s,  and  naturaV  fondness  for  poetic  numbers,  must  have  given 
them  great  superiority  over  their  cotemporaries. 


34  BEAUTIES    OF   THE    BLIND. 

by  nature  with  an  exquisite  sensibility  of  heart ;  prone 
to  that  tender  melancholy  which  is  so  often  an  at- 
tendant on  great  genius,  and  susceptible  equally  of 
strono-  and  of  soft  emotion."      His  first  adventure  of 
which  we  have  any  account,  was  his  contest  with  the 
chiefs  of  Erin,  for  Ever-allin,  the  beautiful  daughter 
of  Branno,  king  of  Ireland,  in  which  he  was  triumph- 
ant, and  Ever-allin  became  his  wife,  and  mother  of 
his  only  son,  Oscar,  who  was  treacherously  assassina- 
ted by  Cairbar,  a  chief  of  Erin,  and  his  young  spouse 
Melvina  was  left  in  Cona,  to  mourn  the  fall  of  her 
beloved  hero.     She  became  the  solace  of  Ossian  in 
his  age  and  blindness,  and  it  is  to  her  that  many  of 
his  most  beautiful  poems  are  addressed.     At  what  age 
or  period  of  his  life,  or  from  what  circumstances, 
Ossian  lost  his  sight,  we  cannot  definitely  determine 
from  his  poems  ;  but  it  must  have  been  at  a  consid- 
erably advanced  age,  for  he  sings  of  expeditions  and 
battles  in  which  he  fought,  v,-hen  in  the  full  vigor 
and  strength  of  manhood,  in  company  with  his  son 
Oscar.     That  these  poems  were  written,  however,  af- 
ter he  was  blind,  appears  evident  from  the  fact  that 
he,  in  nearly  all  of  them,  adverts  to  and  laments  his 
sightless  condition.     Notwithstanding  the  almost  uni- 
versal applause  and  admiration  which  tliese  composi- 
tions have  received  from  all  lovers  of  true  poetry, 
and  their  translation  into  almost  every  refined  lan- 
guage  in   the   civilized    world,   as   Ossianic,   every 
reader  in  the  least   acquainted   with   their  history, 
must  be  aware  that  their  authorship  has  been  a  sub- 


08SIAN.  35 

ject  of  long  and  earnest  dispute  since  their  first  pub- 
lication. The  idea  that  poems  of  so  pure  a  style, 
abounding  in  such  exquisite  tenderness  and  sublim- 
ity, should  have  been  produced  in  an  age  so  rude  in 
every  other  respect,  and  transmitted  by  oral  tradition 
without  corruption,  through  a  period  of  nearly  four- 
teen hundred  years,  has  shocked  the  credulity  of 
many  intelligent  and  well-disposed  persons.  This 
has  been  looked  upon  by  many  literary  characters, 
especially  those  of  England,  as  so  far  out  jof  the  ordi- 
nary course  of  things,  that  they  have  by  some  been 
attributed  to  McPherson,  who,  it  is  maintained,  wrote 
and  ascribed  them  to  an  ancient  bard,  to  avoid  the 
criticism  and  envy  of  his  cotemporary  writers. 

Much  light  had  been  thrown  upon  this  subject, 
from  time  to  time,  by  the  numerous  methods  institu- 
ted for  this  purpose,  until  Dr.  Blair,  in  his  critical 
dissertation  concerning  the  poems  of  Ossian,  so  thor- 
oughly canvassed  the  subject,  and  by  facts,  deduc- 
tions, and  arguments,  proved  them  to  be  the  genuine 
poems  of  Ossian,  that  there  is  scarcely  room  left  for 
a  doubt.  There  yet  remains,  however,  unemployed, 
one  argument  with  which,  had  it  been  at  the  com- 
mand of  this  clear-minded  and  profound  writer,  he 
would  have  dispelled  all  speculation  on  this  subject, 
as  flee  the  shadows  of  night  before  the  morning  sun. 
This  argument  is  predicated  upon  the  perfect  deline- 
ations of  feeling  in  which  these  poems  abound,  intui- 
tive in  the  bosom  of  every  blind  person.  No  less 
than  twenty  times  does  the  author  refer  to  this  de- 


36  BEAlJl'JlES   OF. THE   BLmD. 

privation,  in  a  manner  so  striking,  that  every  blind 
person  acquainted  with  his  own  thoughts  and  erao 
tions,  cannot  fail  to  recognize  them  as  kindred  to 
those  awakened  in  his  own  breast.  Were  these  the 
only  proofs  in  favor  of  their  being  the  poems  of  Os- 
sian,  his  claim  would  be  established  iirm  as  the  pyr- 
amids of  Egypt,  defying  all  the  armies  of  literary 
dabblers  and  cavilers  that  have  ever  questioned  their 
authorship.  We  do  not  pretend  to  deny,  that  poems 
whose  themes  and  imagery  are  drawn  from  the  uni- 
versal field  of  nature,  to  which  every  author  has  ac- 
cess, may  sometimes  be  imitated,  with  considera- 
ble exactness  ;  but  these  are  the  emotions  and  vibra 
tions  of  the  soul's  intensest  struggles,  and  are  as  proof 
against  forgery,  as  the  voice  of  the  earthquake.  One 
of  the  writers  of  this  article,  having  possessed  the  ad- 
vantages of  sight,  until  at  a  considerable  mature  age, 
he  can  fully  appreciate  the  difficulty  under  which  he 
labors  to  make  himself  understood  on  this  point,  by 
those  who  have  never  felt  the  peculiar  emotions 
awakened  by  a  sense  of  blindness.  There  are  pecu- 
liarities in  all  the  descriptive  writings  of  the  blind,  so 
striking,  especially  when  portraying  their  own  con- 
dition, or  that  of  others  under  similar  circumstances, 
that  we  find  no  difficulty  whatever  in  tracing  their 
identity. 

But  that  tiicse  marks  of  recognition  are  not  so  ap- 
parent to  the  seeing,  is  clearly  manifest  from  the  foi- 
owing  remarks  of  Dr.  Kitto,  relative  to  Homer  and 
his  writings:     "The  fact  that  he  was  blind,"  says 


OSiSIAN.  37 

this  celebrated  author,  "  could  not,  we  ap}>rohend,  be 
collected  from  his  works ;  but  we  may  accept  with- 
out dispute  the  ancient  and  universal  tradition  of  his 
being  in  that  condition."  "With  all  due  deference 
to  the  doctor's  clear  perception,  we  beg  leave  to  af- 
firm, that  while  the  account  of  Demodocus  remains 
in  the  Odyssey,  and  the  description  of  the  Cyclopean 
giant,  (whose  huge  eye  Ulysses  put  out,)  in  the  ninth 
book  of  that  poem,  this  master-work  will  be  claimed 
by  the  blind,  though  every  tradition  of  its  author 
should  siuk  into  oblivion. 

These  remarks  are  alike  applicable  to  Milton,  Dr. 
Blacklock,  Rev.  Dr.  Lucas,  and  others.  So  numer- 
ous and  striking  are  the  pictures  which  these  authors 
liave  drawn  of  their  own  peculiar  privations,  that 
they  form  true  mirrors  in  which  every  blind  person 
may  behold  reflected  his  oWn  condition.  In  the  third 
book  of  "  Paradise  Lost,"  and  in  the  dramatic  poem, 
"  Samson  Agonistes,"  their  inimitable  author  has  left 
such  glaring  images  of  blindness,  as  must  forever  be- 
tray the  privation  under  which  they  were  conceived, 
though  all  incidents  of  bis  life  were  erased  from  the 
pages  of  history, 

■   How  forcibly  and  pathetic  do  the  following  senti 
ments  address  themselves  to  our  own  hearts  : 


Thus  with  the  year 
Seasons  return  ;  but  not  to  me  returns 
Day,  or  the  sweet  approach  of  even  or  morn. 
Or  sight  of  vernal  bloom,  or  summer's  rose, 
Or  flocks,  or  herds,  or  human  face  divine  * 


58  BEAUTIKS   OF   THK    BLIND. 

But  cloud  instead,  and  ever-dunng  dark 

Surrounds  me  I       »         *         *         » 

So  much  the  rather  thou,  celestial  Light! 

Shine  inward,  and  the  mind  through  all  her  powers 

Irradiate  ;  there  plant  eyes ;  all  mist  from  thence 

Purge  and  disperse  ;  that  I  may  see  and  tell 

Of  things  iuTisible  to  mortal  sight. 

Dr.  Blacklock,  also,  iu  the  following  expressive 
lines,  not  only  paints  his  own  experience,  but  that  of 
his  entire  class : 

Wide  o'er  my  prospect  rueful  darkness  breathes 

Her  inauspicious  vapor;  in  whose  shade. 

Fear,  grief,  and  anguish,  natives  of  her  reign, 

In  social  sadness  gloomy  vigils  keep  ; 

With  tliem  I  walk,  with  them  still  doomed  to  share 

Eternal  blackness,  without  hope  of  dawn. 

But  among  all  the  eminent  poets  of  this  order 
there  is  none  who  has  more  strikingly  portraj'ed  the 
emotions  native  to  a  sense  of  blindness,  than  the  ven- 
erable Ossian.  In  almost  every  poem  in  this  entire 
collection,  he  laments  over  his  sightlessness,  in  strains 
so  touching,  as  are  not  only  indicative  of  condition, 
but  prove  to  us  that  the  emotions  awakened  by  this 
affliction  have  been  the  same  in  every  age  of  the 
world  and  state  of  society.  In  the  fourth  Look  of 
Fingal,  in  a  strain  of  sublimity  that  portrays  the  deep 
emotions  of  his  soul,  he  thus  sadly  mourns  over  his 
deprivations :  "  Daughter  of  the  land  of  snow,  I 
was  not  so  mournful  and  blind,  1  was  not  so  dark  and 
forlorn,  when  Ever-allin  loved  me  !  " 

Again,  in  the  same  book  of  that  poem,  he  thus  ad- 


08SIAN.  39 

dresses  Malvina  :  "  But  1  am  sad,  forlorn,  and  blind  : 
no  more  the  companion  of  heroes !  Give,  lovely 
maid,  to  me  thy  tears." 

In  Carthon,  he  beautifully  speaks  of  feeling  and 
hearing,  the  two  senses  on  which  every  blind  person 
most  depends.  "  I  feel  the  sun,  O  Malvina  !  leave 
me  to  my  rest.  Perhaps  they  may  come  to  my 
dreams.  I  think  I  hear  a  feeble  voice  !  The  beam 
of  heaven  delights  to  shine  on  the  grave  of  Carthon. 
I  feel  it  warm  around."  A.nd  again,  in  the  fifth 
book  of  Fingal,  lamenting  tU^  fall  of  that  hero  :  "  I 
hear  not  thy  distant  voice  on  Cona.  My  eyes  per- 
ceive thee  not.  Often  forlorn  and  dark,  I  sit  at  thy 
tomb,  and  feel  it  with  my  hands.  When  I  think  1 
hear  thy  voice,  it  is  but  the  passing  blast.  Fingal 
has  long  since  fallen  asleep,  the  ruler  of  the  war ! " 
In  the  characters  of  Crothar,  Lamor,  and  Barbardu- 
thal,  who  are  represented  blind,  Ossian  so  perfectly 
delineates  the  gestures  and  feelings  consequent  upon 
such  a  state,  as  could  be  done  by  no  author  to  whom 
these  were  not  prompted  by  experience.  In  Croma, 
the  poet,  speaking  of  his  interview  with  Crothar,  and 
that  hero,  referring  to  the  sliield  presented  to  him  by 
Fingal,  thus  speaks  :  "  Dost  thou .  not  behold  it  on 
the  wall?  for  Crothar's  eyes  have  failed.  Is  thy 
strength  like  thy  father's,  Ossian?  let  the  aged  feel 
thine  arm  !  I  gave  my  arm  to  the  king ;  he  felt  it 
with  his  aged  hands." 

These  quotations,  in  connection  with  what  has  been 
said  in  the  foregoing,  we  deem  sufficient  to  substan 


4tU  BEAUTIES    OF   THE   BLIND. 

tiate  the  position  we  have  taken  relative  to  the  au- 
thorship of  the  poems  in  question.  But  should  any 
one  argue  that  passages  like  these  could  be  pilfered 
from  the  writings  of  the  blind,  and  so  patched  into  the 
compositions  of  another  as  not  to  discover  theft,  we 
can  only  say,  he  betrays  such  an  ignorance  of  the 
true  spirit  of  poetry,  that  we  fear  no  opposition  from 
this  source.  While  heroic  themes,  robed  in  nature's 
own  beauty  and  majesty,  can  interest  the  intelligent 
reader,  the  poems  of  "  Blind  Ossian ''  will  be  read 
with  undiminished  interest,  and  we  cannot  close  this 
article  without  offering  a  few  extracts,  that  may  not 
only  serve  to  throw  light  upon  their  author's  history, 
but  recon^mend  this  collection  to  all  lovers  of  true 
poetry. 


OSSIAN'S  ADDRESS  TO  THE  SUN. 

O  thou  that  rollest  above,  round  as  the  shield  of  my  fathers  I 
Whence»re  thy  beams,  0  Sunt  thy  everlasting  light?  Thou  comest 
forth  in  thy  awful  beauty  ;  the  stars  hide  themselves  in  the  sky; 
the  moon,  cold  and  pale,  sinks  in  the  w^estern  wave  ;  but  thou  thy- 
self movest  alone.  Who  can  be  a  companion  of  thy  course  f  The 
oaks  of  the  mountain  fall ;  the  mountains  themselves  decay  with 
years ;  the  ocean  shrinks  and  grows  again  ;  the  moon  herself  is  lost 
in  heaven  :  but  thou  art  forever  the  same,  rejoicing  in  the  bright- 
ness of  thy  .course.  When  the  world  is  dark  with  tempests,  when 
thunder  rolls  and  lightning  flies,  thou  lookest  in  thy  beautj'  from  the 
clouds,  and  laughest  at  the  storm.  But  to  Ossian  thou  lookest  in 
vain,  for  he  beholds  thy  beams  no  more:  whether  thy  yellow  hair 
flows  on  the  eastern  clouds,  or  thou  tremblest  at  the  gates  "^f  the 
west.     But  thou  art,  perhaps,  like  me,  for  a  season ;  tliy  years  will 


OS8IAN.  41 

hare  an  end.  Thou  shalt  sleep  in  thy  clouds,  careless  ot  the  voic« 
of  the  morning.  Exult  then,  O  Sun,  in  the  strength  of  thy  youth  I 
Age  is  dark  and  unlovely ;  it  is  like  the  glimmering  light  of  the 
moon,  when  it  shines  through  broken  clouds,  and  the  mist  is  on  the 
hills  :  the  blast  of  the  north  is  on  the  plain,  the  traveler  ehrinks  in 
ciie  midst  of  his  journev. 


FROM  THE  POETS  LAST  SONG. 

Lead,  son  of  Alpin,  lead  the  aged  to  his  woods.  The  winds  begin 
X)  rise.  The  dark  wave  of  the  lake  resounds.  Bends  there  not  a 
tpee  from  Mora  with  its  branches  bare?  It  bends,  son  of  Alpin,  in 
the  rustling  blast.  My  harp  hangs  on  a  blasted  branch  ;  the  sound 
of  its  strings  is  mournfuL  Does  the  wind  touch  thee,  O  harp,  oris 
it  some  passing  ghost?  It  is  the  hand  of  Malvinal  Bring  me  the 
harp,  son  of  Alpin.  Another  song  shall  rise.  My  soul  shall  depart 
in  the  sound.  My  fathers  shall  hear  it  in  their  airy  hall.  Their 
dim  faces  shall  hang,  with  joy,  from  their  clouds  ;  and  their  hands 
receive  their  son.  The  aged  oak  bends  over  the  stream.  It  sighs 
with  all  its  moss.  The  withered  fern  whistles  near,  and  mixes,  as 
it  waves,  with  Ossian's  hair.  Strike  the  harp,  and  raise  the  song  • 
be  near,  with  all  your  wings,  ye  winds.  Bear  the  mournful  sound 
away  to  Fingal's  airy  hall.  Bear  it  to  Fingal's  hall,  that  he  may 
hear  the  voice  of  his  son  :  the  voice  of  him  that  praised  the  mighty  I 
The  blast  of  the  north  opens  thy  gates,  0  king  I  I  behold  thee  sit- 
ting on  mist  dimly  gleaming  in  all  thine  arms.  Thy  form  now  is 
not  the  terror  of  the  valiant.  It  is  like  a  watery  cloud,  when  we 
see  the  stars  behind  it  with  their  weeping  eyes.  Thy  shield  is 
the  aged  moon  :  thy  sword  a  vapor  half  kindled  with  fire.  Dim 
and  feeble  is  the  chief  who  traveled  in  brightness  before.  But  thy 
steps  are  on  the  winds  of  the  desert.  The  storms  are  darkening  in 
thy  hand.  Tliou  takest  the  sun  in  thy  wrath,  and  hidest  him  in 
thy  clouds.  The  sons  of  little  men  are  afraid.  A  thousand  show- 
ers descend.  But  when  thou  comest  forth  in  thy  mildness,  the  gale 
of  the  morning  is  near  thy  couj-se.  The  sun  laughs  in  his  blue 
fields ;  the  gray  stream  winds  in  its  vale.  The  bushes  shake  their 
green  heads  in  the   wind.     Tlie  roes  bound  towards  the  desert 


42  BEAUTIBS   OF   THE   BLIND. 

ITiere  is  a  murmur  in  the  heath  !  the  stormy  winds  abate  !  I  hear 
the  Toice  of  Fingal.  Long  has  it  been  absent  from  mine  ear!  Come, 
Ossian.  come  away,  he  says.  Fingal  has  received  his  fame.  We 
passed  away  like  flames  that  have  shone  for  a  season.  Our  depar- 
ture was  in  renown.  Though  the  plains  of  our  battles  are  dark 
and  silent;  our  fame  is  in  the  four  gray  stones.  The  voice  of  Os 
sian  has  been  heard.  The  harp  has  been  strung  in  Selma ;  come, 
Ossian,  come  away,  he  says,  come,  fly  with  thy  fathers  on  clouds. 
I  come,  I  come,  thou  king  of  men  I  The  life  of  Ossian  fails.  I  be- 
gin to  vanish  on  Cona.  My  steps  are  not  seen  in  Selma.  Beside 
the  stone  of  Mora  I  shall  fall  asleep.  The  winds  whistling  in  my 
gray  hair  shall  not  awaken  me.  Depart  on  thy  wings,  O  wind,  thou 
canst  not  disturb  the  rest  of  the  bard-  The  night  is  long,  but  his 
eyes  ar«  heavy.     Depart,  thou  rustling  blast. 


BEAUTIES  FROM  THE  WRITINGS  OF  JOHN  MILTON. 

"  But  Milton  next,  witli  liigh  and  hanglity  stalks, 
Unfettered  in  majestic  numbers  walks ; 
No  vulgar  hero  can  his  muse  engage. 
Nor  earth's  wide  scene  confine  his  hallowed  rage." 

There  is  much  in  the  long  and  eventful  life  of  this 
great  and  good  man,  worthy  of  detail,  and  eminently 
calculated  to  interest  the  general  reader.  But  so 
many  excellent  memoirs  of  him  have  been  given  to 
the  public,  in  connection  with  his  works,  from  pens 
eloquent  with  praise,  and  glowing  with  fervent  admi- 
ration of  his  genius,  that  we  purpose,  in  this  article, 
to  contine  ourselves  mainly  to  that  period  of  his  life 
subsequent  to  the  loss  of  his  sight.  lie  was  born,  it 
appeal's,  at  London,  in  1608 ;  greatly  impaired  his 
sight  by  hard  study  in  youth ;  took  the  degree  of 
A.  M.  at  Christ  College,  in  his  twenty-fourth  year ; 
zealously  embarked  in  the  political  and  religious  con- 
troversies of  the  times,  and,  while  engaged  in  writing 
his  defense  of  the  English  people,  again  overtasked 
his  eyes,  and  brought  on  a  gutta  sei'ena,  which  ended 
in  the  total  extinction  of  his  sight,  in  the  forty-fourth 
year  of  his  age.  Of  this  melanchol}'  result  he  was, 
however,  forewarned  by  his  physician,  but,  in   ♦'^ 


44  BEAUTIES  OF  THE  BLIND, 

alternati^^e  of  evils,  preferred,  it  seems,  the  loss  of 
sight  to  the  dereliction  of  his  duty. 

As  clouds  collect  around  them  dark,  floating  vapors, 
and  -seem  to  conv.ert  into  blackness  the  bright  blue 
sky  itself,  so  great  afflictions  accumulate  sorrow,.until 
every  glad  beam  of  hope  and  joy  is  shut  out  from  the 
heart.  Yery  much  about  this  time,  Milton  was  called 
to  mourn  the  death  of  his  wife,  who  left  to  his  protec- 
tion three  orphan  daughters.  He  did  not,  however, 
long  remain  in  this  friendless  situation,  but  shortly 
after  married  Catharine,  daughter  of  Captain  Wood- 
cock, of  Hackney,  who  seems  to  have  been  the  object 
of  his  fondest  affection,  but  who  died  within  a  year 
after  their  marriage. 

This  new  accession  of  sorrow  again  brought  back 
his  helpless  and  forlorn  condition,  and  no  doubt  cast 
a  deeper  gloom  over  his  spirits  than  either  of  his  for- 
mer afflictions  had  done.  It  forms  the  subject  of  that 
beautiful  and  melting  sonnet  to  his  deceased  wife. 
This  sonnet  is  found  in  Milton's  collected  poems,  and 
possibly  lives  in  the  reader's  memory,  as  one  of  its 
brightest'  and  purest  images  of  thought.  But  as  it 
brings  out  some  valuable  ideas  in  relation  to  the 
dreams  of  the  blind,  and  offers  us  the  welcome  op- 
portunity of  drawing  upon  our  own  experience,  we 
gladly  give  it  room  : 

Methouglit  I  saw  my  late  espoused  saint 
Brought  to  me,  like  Alcestis  from  the  grave, 
Whom  Jove's  great  son  to  her  glad  husband  gave. 
Rescued  from  death  by  force,  though  pale  and  faint. 

Mine  as  whom  wash'd  from  spot  of  child-bed  taint 


MILTON.  45 

Purification  in  the  old  Law  did  save, 

And  sucli,  as  yet  once  more  I  trust  to  have 

Full  sight  of  her  in  Heaven  without  restraint  ;— 

Came,  vested  all  in  white,  pure  as  her  min J : 
Her  face  was  veil'd ;  yet  to  my  fancied  sight 
Love,  sweetness,  goodness,  in  her  person  shined 

So  clear,  as  in  no  face  witli  more  delight. 
But,  0,  as  to  embrace  me  she  inclined, 
I  waked ;  she  fled ;  and  day  brought  back  my  night. 

The  sudden  transit  of  the  blind  from  a  day  of  dreams 
to  a  night  of  realities,  could  not  have  been  more  hap- 
pily or  correctly  described.  Yet  some  coarse  critics 
as  ignorant  of  the  true  spirit  of  poetry  as  of  the  sensa- 
tions of  disappointment,  experienced  by  the  blind 
on  awakening  to  a  world  of  darkness,  have  presumed 
to  pronounce  the  last  line  of  this  sonnet  a  conceit, 
and  even  faulty  in  construction.  It  may  be  interest- 
ing to  those  who  would  sometimes  gladly  close  their 
eyes,  and  even  memory,  from  the  busy  and  active 
scenes  of  life,  but'  who  welcome  with  joy  the  first 
glad  ray  of  morning,  to  know  that  to  those  who  lose 
their  sight  late  in  life,  night  alone  can  restore  a  world 
of  light  and  color,  of  bright  eyes  and  happy  familial 
faces,  of  woods,  streams,  flowers,  and  merry  sunshine. 
But  what  is  more  strange,  we  are  able  to  recognize,  in 
dreams,  persons  with  whom  we  may  have  formed  an 
acquaintance  subsequent  to  blindness :  sometimes  by 
that  peculiar  expression  of  countenance  with  which 
fancy  raay  have  invested  them,  but  more  commonly 
by  th*}  familiar  sound  of  their  voices. 

To  thode  who  have  never  seen  light,  (and  hence  are 


46  UEAUT1E8  OF  THE  BLIND. 

Ignorant  of  darkness,)  the  world  of  dreams  and  that 
of  realities  are  the  same,  except  that  in  the  latter, 
fancy  is  controlled  by  will  and  reason,  and  the  senses 
are  awake  to  external  impressions.  In  dreams,  the 
imagination  presents  to  our  fancied  touch,  strange  or 
familiar  objects,  bearing  marks  of  recognition,  with 
smooth  and  rough  surfaces,  differing  in  form  and  di 
raension,  and  sometimes  frightful  scenes,  such  as  build- 
ings on  fire,assassin8inpursuitof  their  victims,  armies 
in  deadly  strife,  the  boisterous  ocean,  flying  clouds, 
and,  in  short,  every  phenomenon  of  which  it  is  possi- 
ble to  gain  a  knowledge  from  description. 

Milton,  finding  himself  a  second  time  a  widower,  em- 
ployed Dr.  Paget  to  aid  him  in  making  choice  of  a  third 
consort,  who  was  Elizabeth  Minshul,  of  Chesliire. 
By  the  assistance  of  his  three  daughters,  who,  under 
his  instruction,  had  become  very  serviceable,  he  was 
now  able  to  prosecute  his  studies  with  nearly  as  much 
pleasure  and  profit,  as  when  he  depended  upon  his 
own  resources  for  information.  His  two  elder  daugh- 
ters are  said  to  have  been  able  to  pronounce  the  Latin, 
Greek,  and  Hebrew  languages,  and  to  read  in  their 
respective  originals  whatever  authors  he  wished  to 
consult,  though  they  understood  none  but  their  mother 
tongue.  But  notwithstanding  all  these  advantages, 
no  one,  perhaps,  ever  felt  his  loss  of  sight  more  deeply, 
or  described  it  more  pathetically,  than  Milton.  In 
view  of  the  ills  that  followed  in  its  train,  this  afflic- 
tion was  no  doubt  to  him  a  source  of  bitter  regret 
hut  to  the  world,  it  will  ever  be  regarded  as  a  bless- 


MILTON.  47 

ing.  For  had  not  this  night  closed  upon  his  political 
career,  shut  out  from  his  view  objects  of  sense,  and 
left  his  great  soul  to  concentrate  its  powers  in  sublime 
contemplation,  and  to  find  utterance  only  in  glowing 
ima'ges  of  thought, "  Paradise  Lost,"  would  never  have 
been  written.  Not  that  darkness  is  likely  to  produce 
new  mental  phenomena,  or  favor  a  more  extended  re- 
search into  physical  sciences ;  but  that  the  absence 
of  sight  does  aid  reflection,  concentration,  and  the 
imagination,  few  will  deny. 

Milton,  it  is  true,  like  Homer,  had  collected  much 
of  his  material  of  thought,  before  the  loss  of  his  sight. 
He  had  visited  the  classic  grounds  of  Italy,  and  had 
seen  na*^ure  robed  in  her  brightest  and  richest  attire. 
Whiio  a  atudent  of  Christ's  College,  he  composed  many 
Latin  poems,  and  is  said  to  have  been  the  first  English- 
man who  wrote  Latin  verse  with  classical  elegance. 
His  "Mask  of  Comus,"  "L 'Allegro,"  and  "  Pense- 
roso,"  bear  the  unmistakable  impress  of  true  genius ; 
and  would  have  been  suflicient  to  render  his  name 
immortal,  had  he  left  no  other  monuments  of  his  great- 
ness. But  as  stars  fade  at  the  approach  of  morning 
light,  so  these  recede  before  the  noonday  splendor  of 
"  Paradise  Lost ; "  an  epic  poem  only  inferior  to  the 
"  Iliad,"  in  force  and  heroic  fire,  and  not  in  profound 
contemplation.  The  description  of  Satan's  escape 
from  his  dungeon,  and  ascent  through  the  realm  of 
chaos,  up  to  light,  in  the  second  book  of  this  poem, 
is  perhaps  one  of  the  loftiest  conceptions  that  ever 


48  BEAUTIES  OF  THE  BLIND. 

sprang  from  the  human  intellect.  And  we  are  fully 
persuaded,  that,  had  not  the  author  been  surrounded 
by  the  hollow  darkness  which  he  here  describes ;  and 
wholly  shut  in  with  self  and  thought,  while  ever- 
during  night  kept  sentinel  without,  this  scene  could 
never  have  been  rendered  so  complete.  The  view 
presented  to  Satan,  sin  and  death,  on  the  opening  of 
the  infernal  gates,  set  forth  in  the  following,  in  point 
of  sublimity  is  certainly  without  a  parallel: 

Before  their  eyes  in  sudden  view  appear 

The  secrets  of  the  hoary  deep ;  a  dark 

Illimitable  ocean,  without  bound, 

Without  dimension,  where  length,  breadth,  and  heigL^ 

And  time,  and  place,  are  lost ;  where  eldest  Kight 

And  Chaos,  ancestors  of  Kature,  hold 

Eternal  anarchy,  amidst  the  noise 

Of  endless  wars,  and  by  confusion  stand: 

For  hot,  cold,  moist,  and  dry,  four  champions  fierce. 

Strive  here  for  mast'ry,  and  to  battle  bring 

Their  embryon  atoms ;  they  around  the  flag 

Of  each  his  faction,  in  their  several  clans, 

Light-urm'd  or  heavy,  sharp,  smooth,  swift,  or  slow, 

Swarm  populous,  unnumber'd  as  the  sands 

Of  Barca  or  Cj'rene.'s  torrid  soil. 

Levied  to  side  with  warring  winds,  and  poise 

Their  lighter  wings.     To  whom  these  most  adJiere, 

He  rules  a  moment ;'  Chaos  umpire  sits. 

And  by  decision  more  embroils  the  fray. 

By  which  he  reigns:  next  him,  high  arbiter. 

Chance  governs  all.     Into  this  wild  abyss, 

{  The  womb  of  nature,  and  perhaps  her  grave,) 

Of  neither  sea,  nor  shore,  nor  air,  nor  fire, 

But  all  these  in  their  pregnant  causes  raix'd 

Confusedly,  and  which  thus  must  ever  fight, 

(  Unless  the  Almighty  Maker  them  ordain 


MILTON.  4P 

flis  dark  materials  to  create  more  worlds ;) 
Into  this  wild  abyss  the  wary  fiend 
Stood  on  the  briuk  of  hell,  and  look'd  a  whil« 
Pondering  his  voyage. 

'After  much  difficulty  this  divine  poem  was  licensed 
lOr  the  press,  and  published  first  at  London,  in  1667. 
To  show  how  little  the  age  in  which  Milton  lived  was 
worthy  of  so  great  a  genius,  we  need  only  mention 
that  on  the  completion  of  this  great  work,  the  poet 
could  sell  the  copy  for  no  more  than  fifteen  pounds, 
the  payment  of  which  depended  u})on  the  sale  of  three 
large  editions ;  and  his  widow  afterwards  sold  her 
viaims  for  eight  pounds.  Three  years  after  the  pub- 
lication of  "  Paradise  Lost,"  he  published  "  Samson 
Agonistes,"  a  tragedy  in  the  purest  style  of  the  Greek 
Drama;'  and  " Paradise  Regained,"  the  subject  of 
which  is  said  to  have  been  suggested  by  the  following 
circumstance :  El  wood,  a  Quaker,  who  had  read  "  Par- 
adise Lost,"  in  manuscript,  on  returning  it,  put  this 
quaint  interrogation:  "  What  hast  thou  to  say  to  Par- 
adise Found  ? " 

We  have  only  farther  to  mention  that,  worn  out 
by  the  gout,  our  poet  paid  the  debt  of  nature  in  1674, 
in  his  sixty -sixth  year. 


50  BEAUTIES  OF  THE  BLIND. 

The  following  sublime  and  aftecting  production  was 
but  lately  discovered  among  the  remains  of  our  gi»eat 
epic  poet,  and  is  published  in  the  recent  Oxford  edi- 
tion of  Milton's  Works : 

I  am  old  and  blind  1 
Men  point  at  me  as  smitten  by  God's  frown  ; 
AflBicted  and  deserted  of  my  kind ; 

Yet  I  am  not  cast  down. 

I  am  weak,  yet  strong  ; 
T  murmur  not  that  I  no  longer  see ; 
Poor,  old,  and  helpless,  I  the  more  belong, 

Father  supreme  1  to  thee. 

O,  merciful  one  I 
When  men  are  farthest  then  thou  art  most  near ; 
When  friends  pass  by  me,  and  my  weakness  shun. 

Thy  chariot  I  hear. 

Thy  glorious  face 
b  leaning  towards  me;  and  its  holy  light 
Shines  in  upon  my  lonely  dwelling  place — 

And  there  is  no  more  night. 

On  my  bended  knee 
I  recognize  thy  purpose  clearly  shown : 
My  vision  thou  hast  dimm'd,  that  I  may  see 

Thyself— Thyself  alone. 

I  have  nought  to  fear ; 
This  darkness  is  the  shadow  of  thy  wing ; 
Beneath  it  I  am  almost  sacred ;  here 

Can  come  no  evil  thing. 

0 1   I  seem  to  stand 
Trembling,  where  foot  of  mortal  ne'er  hath  been, 
Wrapp'd  in  the  radiance  of  thy  sinless  land, 

Which  eye  hath  never  seen. 


MILTON.  51 

"Visions  come  and  go: 
Shapes  of  resplendent  beauty  ronnd  rae  throng ; 
From  angel  lips  I  seem  to  hear  the  flow 

Of  soft  and  holy  song. 

la  it  nothing  now, 
When  heaven  is  opening  on  my  sightless  eyes? — 
When  airs  from  paradise  refresh  my  brow 

The  earth  in  darkness  lies. 

In  a  purer  clime 
My  being  fills  with  rapture — waves- of  thoueM 
Roll  in  upon  my  spirit — strains  sublime 

Break  over  me  unsought. 

Give  me  now  my  lyre! 
I  feel  the  stirrings  of  a  gift  divine: 
Within  my  bosom  glows  unearthly  fir« 

Lit  by  no  skill  of  mine. 


KEV  RICHARD  LtJCAS,  D.  D. 

These  is  no  other  period  in  the  history  of  Engla.  i 
that  produced  as  many  able  polemic  writers,  as  the 
seventeenth  century.  The  enthusiasm  and  cruel  per- 
secutions that  attended  the  first  outbreak  of  the  re- 
formation in  that  country,  had  then  much  subsided, 
and  both  the  great  leading  powers  (Protestant  and 
Papal)  were  made  willing  to  consecrate  their  faith 
and  creeds  at  the  shrine  of  reason  and  revelation. 
Tliis  concession,  so  long  sought  for  by  the  reformers, 
inspired  and  brought  into  the  field  many  of  the  mosf- 
learned  and  distinguished  men  of  those  spirit-stirring 
times.  Their  fervent  discussions  of  holy  writ,  tem- 
pered with  that  moderation  and  zeal  which  an  earn- 
est inquiry  after  the  truth  always  inspires,  resulted 
in  the  discovery  and  establishment  of  those  vital  doc- 
trines, in  the  propagation  of  which  the  Christian 
church  has  since  been  so  eminently  successful.  In 
this  arena  of  giant  intellects,  was  spent  the  life  of  our 
author,  a  bright  luminary,  lighting  up  the  path  of  the 
inquirer  after  truth,  and  by  his  profound  learning 
vanquishing  the  advocates  of  error  on  every  side. 

This  eminent  divine  was  of  Welsh  origin,  the  son 
>f  Mr.  Richard  Lucas,  of  Resteign,  in  Radnorshire, 
England,  and  was  born  in  that  county  in  tlie  year 


KKV.    UICHAKD    LUCAS,  D.  D.  53 

1648.  lie  early  evinced  a  strong  desire  for  know- 
ledge, and  after  a  thorough  training  in  the  common 
branches  of  science,  he  was  sent  to  Oxford,  and  en- 
tered a  student  of  Jesus  College,  in  1664. 

Having  taken  both  his  degrees  in  arts,  he  entered 
into  holy  orders  about  the  year  1672,  and  was  after- 
wards master  of  the  free  school  at  Abergavenny ;  but 
being  much  esteemed  for  his  talents  in  the  pulpit,  he 
was  chosen  vicar  of  St.  Stephen's,  Coleman-street, 
London,  and  lecturer  of  St.  Olave,  So  ithwark,  in 
1683.  His  sight  began  to  fail  in  his  youth,  but  he 
lost  it  totally  about  this  time. 

The  privation  of  this  important  sense  in  the  full 
vigor  of  life  and  highest  sphere  of  usefulness,  might 
have  been  considered  by  some,  (less  noble,)  a  j  ustifia- 
ble  excuse  for  a  retirement  from  the  duties  and  re 
sponsibilities  of  public  life.  But  he,  true  to  that  ex- 
cellency of  soul  that  characterized  his  former  career, 
made  up  in  energy  and  perseverance  what  he  lost  in 
sight,  and  continued  to  devote  himself  to  the  public 
good  with  such  well-directed  zeal  as  must  merit  the 
highest  respect  of  all  succeeding  generations. 

Early  in  life,  at  an  age  when  most  young  men 
spend  their  time  in  trifling  amusements,  this  cham- 
pion of  the  cross  consecrated  all  his  powers  to  the 
service  of  his  divine  Master,  and  was,  therefore, 
meekly  resigned  to  whatever  privation  or  affliction  a 
benign  Providence  might  assign  him. 

As  a  testimonial  of  his  resignation  we  quote  the 
following  from  the  preface  of  the  author's  work,  eu- 


64  BEAUTIES   OF   THE   BLIND. 

titled  "  Enquiry  after  Happiness : "  "  It  has  pleased 
God,  that  in  a  few  years  I  should  finish  the  more 
pleasant  and  delightful  part  of  life,  if  sense  were  to 
be  the  judge  and  standard  of  pleasure,  being  con- 
fined (I  will  not  say  condemned)  to  retirement  and 
solitude. 

"In  this  state  conversation  has  lost  much  of  its 
former  air  and  •  briskness ;  study,  which  is  the  only 
employment  left  me,  is  clogged  with  this  weight  and 
incumbrance,  that  all  the  assistance  I  can  receive 
from  without,  must  be  conveyed  by  another's  sense, 
not  my  own  ;  which,  it  may  easily  be  believed, 
are  instruments  or  organs  as  ill  fitted  and  awk- 
wardly managed  by  me,  as  wooden  legs  and  hands 
by  the  maimed.  Should  I  ambitiously  afiPect  to  have 
my  name  march  in  the  train  of  those,  although  not 
all  equally  great  ones.  Homer,  Appius,  Aufidius, 
Didymus,  Walkup,  Pere  Jean  I'Aveugle,  &c.,  all  of 
them  eminent  for  their  service  and  usefulness,  not- 
withstanding their  afiiiction  of  the  same  kind  with 
mine,  even  this  might  seem  almost  a  commendable 
infirmity  ;  for  the  last  thing  a  mind  truly  great  and 
philosophical  puts  oft',  is  the  desire  of  glory.  But 
this  treatise  owes  neither  its  conception  nor  birth  to 
this  principle  ;  for,  besides  that  I  know  my  own  in- 
sufficiency, I  must  confess  I  never  had  a  soul  great 
enough  to  be  acted  by  the  heroic  heat  which  the  love 
of  fame  and  honor  has  kindled  in  some." 

Notwithstanding  the  inconvenience  of  this  priva- 
tion, Dr.  Lucas  continued  to  discharge  the  duties  of 


REV.    KICHAKD    LLCA8,  D.  D.  56 

his  holy  calling,  with  such  zeal  and  ability  as  brought 
him  to  the  notice  and  favor  of  some  of  the  leading 
men  of  his  day.  He  took  the  degree  of  doctor  of  di- 
vinity, and  was  installed  prebendary  of  "Westminster, 
in  1696.  He  died,  June,  1715,  and  was  interred  in 
Westminster  Abbey. 

"  So,  peaceful  rests,  without  a  stoue,  a  name,    • 
That  once  had  titles,  piety,  and  fame." 

"  How  loved,  how  honored  once,  avails  thee  not, 
To  whom  related,  or  by  whom  begot ; 
A  heap  of  dust  alone  remains  of  thee  ; 
'Tis  all  thou  art,  and  all  the  proud  shall  be  I  " 

Dr.  Lucas  wrote  many  valuable  works,  namely  : 
"  A  Treatise  on  Practical  Christianity  ; "  "  The  Mo- 
rality of  the  Gospel ;"  "  A  Guide  to  Heaven ; "  "An 
Enquiry  after  Happiness ; "  "  Christian  Thoughts  for 
every  Day  of  the  Week ; "  "  The  Duty  of  Servants ; ' 
and  "  Sermons,"  in  five  volumes.  He  also  made  a 
Latin  translation  of  the  "Whole  Duty  of  Man,"  which 
was  published  in  1680. 

Of  Dr.  Lucas,  Mr.  Orton  has  given  the  following 
from  Dr.  Doddridge's  Mss. :  "  His  style  is  very  pe- 
culiar :  sometimes  exceedingly  fine,  nearly  approach- 
ing to  conversation  ;  sometimes  grand  and  sublime ; 
generally  very  expressive.  His  method  not  clear, 
but  his  thoughts  excellent ;  many  are  taken  from  at- 
tentive observation  of  life ;  he  wrote  as  entirely  de- 
voted to  God,  and  superior  to  the  world."  His 
"  Practical  Christianity  "  is  most  valuable,  and  also 
his  "Enquiry  after  Happiness,"  especially  the  second 


56  lji!Jk.UTIE8   OF   THE   BLIND. 

volume.  Ortou  speaks  of  reading  the  latter  work  a 
«xth  time.  The  pious  Mr.  Hervej,  in  speaking  of 
his  work,  says  :  "  May  I  be  permitted  to  recommend 
as  a  treasixe  of  inestimable  value,  Dr.  Lucas'  '  En- 
quiry after  Happiness ; '  that  part,  especially,  which 
displays  the  method,  and  enumerates  the  advantages 
of  improving  life,  or  living  much  in  a  little  time ; 
chapter  iii,  page  158  of  the  6th  edition.  An  author 
in  whom  the  gentleman,  the  scholar,  and  the.  chris- 
tian, are  most  happily  united  ;  a  performance  which, 
in  point  of  solid  argument,  unaffected  piety,  and  a 
vein  of  thought  amazingly  fertile,  has,  perhaps,  no 
superior.  Nor  can  I  wish  my  reader  a  more  refined 
pleasure,  or  a  more  substantial  happiness,  than  that 
of  having  the  sentiments  of  this  entertaining  and  pa- 
thetic writer  woven  into  the  very  texture  of  his 
1  art."  The  treatise  on  "  Practical  Christianity  "  is 
earnestly  recommended,  also,  by  Sir  Richard  Steele, 
In  the  Guardian,  No.  43.  To  these  great  namea  we 
must  add  that  of  Rev.  John  Wesley,  who  warmly  re- 
commends the  "  Treatise  on  Happiness  "  to  his  peo- 
ple, as  ono  of  the  most  valuable  books  a  Christian 
can  read. 

What  has  been  said  in  the  foregoing  sketch,  r© 
specting  the  life  and  commendable  characteristics  of 
this  great  man,  may  have  raised  a  wish  in  our  read- 
ers to  have  a  specimen  of  his  writings.  We  there 
fore  copy  at  length  from  his  inimitable  work.  We 
do  it  the  more  cheerfully,  from  the  conviction  that 
aoue  of  the  literary  productions  of  this  author,  so  em 


BKV.  KICHAKD   LUCAS,  D.    D.  57 

inent  in  his  own  country,  have  ever  been  before  the 
American  public. 


[Froin**ED4nii7  after  Happiness,"  published  in  London,  in  180C] 

ADDRESS  TO  TPIE  YOUNG. 

You  are  now  in  your  bloom.  What  glorious  fruit 
may  you  bring  forth !  what  honor  may  you  do 
God  !  wliat  service  may  you  render-  your  relations 
and  your  country !  and  what  joys  and  blessings 
may  you  not  heap  on  yourselves  !  Time  and  tide 
seem  to  wait  on  you ;  even  the  providence  and 
grace  of  God,  with  reverence  be  it  said,  seem  to  at- 
tend and  court  you. 

But,  all !  remember,  they  will  not  do  so  forever ; 
these  smiles  and  invitations  of  heaven  and  nature 
will  not  last  continually ;  your  infidelity  or  ingrati- 
tude, your  folly  and  sensuality,  will  soon  blast  and 
wither  all  these  fair  hopes,  turn  all  your  pleasures 
into  gall  and  wormwood,  and  all  your  blessed  advan- 
tages into  the  instruments  of  your  ruin,  and  aggrava- 
tions of  it,  too.  Grace  w^ill  soon  retire,  nature  degen- 
erate, time  grow  old,  the  world  despise  you,,  the  God 
of  it  frown  upon  you,  and  conscience,  guilty  con- 
science, will  be  either  stupefied  and  benumbed,  or 
fester  and  rage  within  you,  and  death  will  come,  and 
then  judgment ;  and  how  soon  it  will  come,  ah  !  who 
knows?  Sudden  and  early  deaths  ought  to  convince 
)ou   on   w^hat   uncertain   ground   you   stand.      The 


68        •  BEA.UTIE8   OF   THE    BLINli. 

scythe  of  death  stays  not  always  till  the  harvest  be 
ripe,  but  promiscuously  mows  down  the  young  and 
old.  Ah !  begin,  begin,  then,  to  live !  seize  upon 
pleasure  and  happiness  while  they  stand  courting 
and  inviting  you  ;  pursue  virtue  and  glory  immedi- 
ately, while  the  difficulties  are  fewer,  your  strengths 
and  aids  greater,  your  judgments  being  not  yet  cor- 
rupted by  the  maxims  or  rather  the  fancies  of  the 
world,  nor  your  wills  yet  disabled  and  enslaved  by  a 
custom  of  sin.    ' 

Ah !  venture  not  to  devote  your  youth  to  vanity 
and  folly,  on  presumption  of  devoting  your  age  to  re- 
pentance and  religion ;  for  if  this  were  a  rational  and 
just  design  in  itself,  yet  it  is  to  you  a  very  unsafe 
and  doubtful  one.  For  which  way  can  you  insure 
life,  or  on  what  ground  can  you  confide  on  the  mor- 
row ?  "  Boast  not  thyself  of  to-morrow,  for  thou 
knowest  not  what  a  day  may  bring  forth."  Prov. 
xxvii,  1. 

I  know  what  ojjposition  will  be  raised  against 
this  kind  of  exhortation,  and  with  what  rude  reflec- 
tion they  will  be  treated. .  Come,  say  they,  this  is 
our  spring,  let  us  enjoy  ourselves  whilst  we  have 
time  and  vigor ;  religion  looks  too  grave  and  formal 
for  these  years :  we  shall  have  time  enough  to  be 
dull  and  melancholy.  Come  on,  then ;  let  us  enjoy 
ourselves  as  becomes  our  youth ;  this  is  our  portion, 
and  our  lot  is  this  ;  and  whatever  they  who  have 
now  outlived  themselves,  whose  blood  is  sour  and 
spirits  low,  may  gravely  talk  against  these  things, 


REV.  BI0HAR1>  LU0A8,  D.    D.  59 

they,  too,  when  time  was,  admired  what  they  now 
would  have  us  despise  as  vanity,  and  committed 
tliemselves  what  they  now  condemn  in  us. 

In  answer  to  this,  let  ns  pass  over  the  briskness 
and  the  flourish,  and  examine  the  sense  and  reason 
of  this  sort  of  talk.  The  substance  of  it  may  be  re- 
duced to  three  heads  : 

First.  Youth  is  the  season  of  pleasure,  i.  e.  sin 
and  folly.  Inclination  and  opportunity  conspire  to 
invite  you  to  it ;  therefore  you  indulge  it.  What  a 
strange  argument  is  this!  Is  there  any  period  of  our 
life,  from  our  cradle  almost  to  our  coffin,  I  mean 
from  the  moment  we  arrive  at  the  use  of  reason  to 
our  grave,  wherein  some  sin  or  other  is  not  in  sea- 
son ?  May  not  manhood  defend  ambition,  and  old 
age  covetousness,  by  the  same  argument  by  which 
you  do  your  sinful  pleasures  ?  If  inclination  to  a 
folly  would  justify  our  commission  of  it,  in  what 
part  of  life  should  we  begin  to  be  wise  and  virtuous  ? 
It  will  be  hard  to  find  the  time  wherein  we  shall 
Have  no  inclination  to  any  sin  or  folly  ;  or  rather,  if 
this  be  so,  who  can  be  guilty  ?  The  adulterer  will 
impute  his  uncleanliness  to  the  impetus  of  his  lust ; 
the  murderer  his  bloodshed  to  the  violence  of  his 
rage  ;  i.  e.  each  of  them  their  sins  to  the  strength  of 
their  inclinations ;  and  if  your  argument  be  good 
they  will  be  innocent.  But  do  not  deceive  your- 
selves ;  then  is  your  obedience,  as  most  acceptable  to 
God,  8Q  most  indispensable  in  itself,  when  you  lie 
under  temptations  to  sin,  and  heaven  is  proposed  as 


60  Bl!;AUTTE8    OP   THE   BLIND. 

a   reward,  not   of  following,  but   conquering  jom 
inclinations. 

The  second  part  of  the  objection  is,  that  religion 
doth  not  look  very  graceful  in  young  men.  This  1 
could  never  well  understand.  If  you  be  so  foolish 
as  to  think  religion  consists  in  sour  faces,  or  an  af- 
fected moroseness  and  suUenness,  or  in  stupidity  and 
melancholy,  I  must  confess  you  have  little  reason  to 
be  fond  of  it ;  for  this  becomes  no  age,  and  much 
less  the  more  verdant  one. 

But  if  by  religion  you  understand  devotion  toward 
God,  reverence  towards  your  parents  and  superiors, 
temperance  and  chastity  in  yourselves,  and  such  like 
virtues,  I  must  needs  say,  nothing  can  appear  to  me 
more  great  and  lovely  than  religion  in  youth.  What 
can  better  become  those  who  possess  the  gifts  of  na- 
ture in  their  own  perfection,  than  gratitude  to  the 
God  of  nature  ?  What  can  be  a  greater  glory  to  the 
young,  than  obedience  to  parents,  and  reverence  to 
their  elders  and  superiors  ?  What  does  more  pre- 
serve or  better  become  strength,  than  sobriety  and 
temperance  ?  What  is  a  more  charming  or  more 
lasting  ornament  to  beauty,  than  modesty  and  chas- 
tity ?  After  all  this,  it  is  a  vain  thing  to  comfort 
vourselves  with  saying,  that  the  grave  and  wise, 
when  they  had  the  same  inclinations  you  now  have, 
did  as  you  do — indulge  and  gratify  them  ;  for,  Jirst, 
this  is  not  generally  true  ;  and,  secondly^  the  less  they 
did  it,  the  more  were  they  honored  and  beloved  ;  but 
thirdly^  if  they  did,  it  is  certain  that  they  have  bit- 


BEV.  SIOHAKD  LUCAS,  D.  D.  61 

terly  condemned  it  and  repented  it.  And  is  it  not 
strangely  absurd,  that  you  should  propose  to  your- 
selves nothing  in  the  lives  of  the  wise  and  virtuous 
but  their  frailties  and  errors,  for  your  example  ;  thai 
you  should  pitch  upon  that  only  for  your  imitation, 
which  all  the  wise  and  good  detest  and  bemoan,  as 
tlieir  sin  and  shame,  and  think  it  their  highest  wis- 
,  dora  to  do  so. 

To  conclude  this  address  to  the  younger  sort,  un- 
less there  be  any  who  are  possessed  with  a  spirit  of 
infidelity,  against  which  I  will  not  now  enter  the  lists, 
all  the  pretences  you  can  possibly  form  for  your  de- 
ferring to  devote  yourselves  instantly  to  wisdom  and 
religion,  are  founded  in  two  suppositions,  of  which 
the  one  is  false,  and  the  other  absurd.  The  false  one 
is,  that  sin  is  a  state  of  pleasure  ;  virtue  of  trouble 
and  uneasiness ;  the  contrary  of  which  is,  I  think, 
sufficiently  demonstrated  through  this  whole  treatise ; 
and  would  you  but  be  prevailed  with  to  taste  the 
pleasures  of  a  sincere  virtue,  your  experience  would 
soon  confute  this  fancy.  What  madness,  then,  is  it 
to  be  afraid  of  becoming  happy  too  soon  !  Ah  !  how 
differently  are  we  affected  under  the  maladies  of  the 
mind  and  of  the  body  !  Did  the  lame  or  blind,  the 
lepers,  the  lunatics,  or  demoniacs,  ever  entreat  our 
Lord  to  defer  their  cure,  and  give  them  leave  to  en- 
joy their  miseries,  diseases,  and  devils,  a  little  longer? 

The  other  supposition  is  absurd  ;  which  is,  that 
you  will  repent  hereafter.  Must  you  then  repent 
hereafter  ?     Must  this  be  the  fruit  of  all  your  sinfuJ 


62  BEAOTlliS    OF   THE   BLIND. 

pleasures,  guilt  and  remorse,  grief  and  fear,  dibtiess 
and  agony  of  soul  ?  Do  revelation  and  reason,  death 
and  judgment,  do  all  your  sober  and  retired  thoughts 
preach  you  this  one  lesson,  repentance?  And  yet 
can  you  resolve  to  plunge  yourselves  in  that  filtlii- 
ness  which  must  be  washed  off  with  tears  ?  Can  you 
resolve  to  indulge  those  cheating  and  deceitful  lusts 
which  will  one  day  fill  your  soul  with  shame  and 
sorrow,  with  distraction,  horror,  a:nd  amazement  ? 

Ah,  infatuation  !  ah,  bewitchery  !  that  ever  a  ra- 
tional creature  should  live  in  such  an  open  defiance 
and  hostility  against  his  reason  !  And  yet,  if  repent 
ance,  after  many  years,  and  innumerable  sins,  would 
be  more  easy  ;  if  your  sins  would  be  more  easily  con  • 
quered,  or  more  easily  atoned  ;  this  frenzy  would  not 
want  some  little  color.  But  how  contrpi  y  is  this  to 
truth.       ► 


THE  LIFE  OF  T.  CAROLAN, 

rHB  CaCLEBRATED  IRISH  MUSICIAN  AND  LYRICAL  WRITER 

"Erin  from  her  green  throne  surveys 
The  progress  of  her  tuneful  son, 
Exulting  as  the  minstrel  plays, 
At  the  applause  his  harp  has  won. 
Then  grieve  not  for  the  loss  that  shades 
Fair  nature's  landscape  from  your  view ; 
The  genius  that  no  gloom  invades. 
She  gave  in  recompense  to  you." 

Carolan  was  born  in  1670,  in  the  village  of  Nob- 
ber,  in  the  county  of  Westmeath.  He  is  among  the 
last  of  the  Irish  bards  of  any  distinction.  His  father 
was  a  poor  farmer,  the  humble  proprietor  of  a  few 
acres,  which  yielded  him  a  scanty  subsistence.  Car- 
•lan  lost  his  sight  at  a  very  early  age,  by  the  small- 
pox. He  soon  evinced  a  fondness  for  music  and  po- 
etry, and  received  every  encouragement  from  his 
friends  that  their  limited  means  would  allow.  At 
twelve  years  of  age  he  commenced  a  thorough  course 
of  musical  study,  under  a  proficient  master,  who  in- 
structed him  upon  the  harp  ;  but  unfortunately  for 
him,  his  remarkable  genius  was  not  coupled  with  that 
rigid  application  so  requisite  to  success.  Genius  sel- 
dom makes  diligence  her  companion  :  her  perfect  ere- 


64  BEA.UTIES    OF   THE   BLIND. 

ations  appear  at  her  bidding,  and  if  nature  doea  iiot 
give  thera  breath,  she  disowns  her  offspring. 

Carolan  spent  the  most  of  his  life  as  an  itinerant 
musician,  singing  at  tne  houses  of  tne  great,  wliere 
he  never  failed  to  meet  with  a  cordial  welcome.  lie 
thought  the  tribute  of  a  song  due  to  every  house  in 
which  he  was  entertained,  and  never  foiled  to  pay  it 
choosing  for  his  subject  either  the  head  of  the  family^ 
or  some  one  of  its  loveliest  members.  He  is  said  tc 
liave  composed  upward  of  four  hundred  pieces  ;  and 
contributed  much  towards  correcting  and  enriching 
the  style  of  national  Irish  music,  by  his  productions. 
He  alternately  tried  almost  every  style  of  music,  the 
elegiac,  the  festive,  the  amorous,  and  the  saci'ed  ;  and 
has  so  much  excelled  in  each,  that  we  scarcely  know 
to  which  of  them  his  genius  was  best  adapted. 
Among  the  numerous  instances  in  which  he  displayed 
a  knowledge  of  harmony  and  purity  of  taste,  not  com- 
mon to  the  Irish  at  that  Deriod,  the  following  is  per- 
haps the  most  striking : 

His  fame  as  a  musician  having  reached  the  ears 
of  an  eminent  Italian  music-master  in  Dublin,  he  de- 
vised a  plan  for  •  nttiug  his  abilities  to  a  very  severe 
test.  He  singled  out  an  elegant  piece  of  music  in  the 
Italian  style  ;  but  here  and  there  he  altered  or  muti- 
lated it,  in  such  a  manner  that  none  but  a  real  judge 
could  detect  the  alterations.  Carolan,  quite  unaware 
that  it  was  intended  as  a  trial  of  his  skill,  gave  the 
deepest  attention  to  the  performer  who  played  the 
piece,  thus  altered,  in  his  presence.     He   then  de- 


CAKOLAN.  6& 

c'aie^  it  CO  A)e  an  excellent  piece  of  music;  but,  to 
the  astonishment  and  satisfaction  of  the  company, 
p.dded  humorously,  '  but  here  and  there  it  limps  and 
■^tumbles.'  He  was  then  requested  to  rectify  the  er- 
'ors,  which  he  accordingly  did.  In  this  state  the 
oiece  was  sent  back  to  Dublin  ;  and  the  Italian  mas- 
\er  no  sooner  saw  the  amendments,  than  he  cordially 
pronounced  Carolan  to  be  a  true  musical  genius. 

Aside  from  his  superior  musical  abilities,  lie  was  a 
/ery  fair  poet,  and  has  left  coupled  to  his  music 
many  fine  lyric  poems.  As  music  always  tends  to 
soften  and  refine  the  feelings,  and  to  kindle  in  the 
soul  deep  and  ardent  passions,  Carolan  was  by  no 
means  exempt  from  this  rule.  Being  frequently  de- 
pendent upon  others  for  kind  offices,  and  perhaps 
eometimes  accused  by  them  of  ingratitude,  he  no 
doubt  felt  most  keenly,  at  times,  his  forlorn  and 
friendless  condition.  When  he  grew  to  manhood, 
there  was  a  time  when  his  harp  could  only  reecho  the 
impulses  of  love.  About  this  time  he  became  warmly 
attached  to  a  young  lady  by  the  name  of  Bridget 
Cruise.  But  Bridget,  it  appears,  did  not  unite  her  lot 
with  his  ;  and  he  afterward  loved  and  married  Mary 
Maguire,  of  a  good  family,  in  the  county  of  Ferma- 
nagh. After  this  event,  he  built  him  a  neat  little 
house,  on  a  small  farm  near  Mars-hill,  where  lie 
lived,  it  is  said,  more  merrily  than  wisely. 

An  interesting  anecdote  is  related  of  our  blind  poet 
and  musician,  in  which  it  appears  he  was  able  to  re 
cognise  a  very  dea"  friend,  who  had  long  been  ab 


66  BEAUTIES    OF   THE   BLIND. 

sent,  by  the  shape  of  her  hand.  Many  years  after 
his  marriage,  he  went  on  a  pilgrimage  to  St.  Patrick's 
Purgatory,  a  cave  in  the  island  of  Songhderg,  Done- 
gal ;  and  on  returning  to  the  shore,  met  several  pil- 
grims waiting  the  arrival  of  the  boat  that  conveyed 
him.  On  assisting  some  of  these  into  the  boat,  his 
hand  unexpectedly  met  one  which  caused  him  to 
start,  and  he  instantly  exclaimed,  "  This  is  the  hand 
of  Bridget  Cruise ! "  His  sense  of  feeling  had  not  de- 
ceived him.  It  was  the  hand  of  her  he  had  once 
4oved  so  passionately.  It  is  by  no  means  uncommon 
for  the  blind  to  recognise  their  friends  by  touching 
their  hands;  yet  the  narrator  of  this  anecdote,  (aa 
though  fearful  the  account  might  be  thought  fabu- 
lous and  legendary  in  a  few  generations,)  adds  :  "1 
had  this  anecdote  from  his  own  mouth,  and  in  terms 
which  gave  me  a  strong  impression  of  the  emotion 
which  he  felt  on  meeting  the  object  of  his  early 
affection." 

By  many  it  is  thought  wonderful,  that  blind  per- 
sons should  be  able  to  recognise  their  friends  by  the 
Bound  of  their  voices,  or  the  peculiar  form  of  their 
hands.  To  us,  it  appears  no  more  strange,  than  that 
the  seeing  should  recognise  a  friend  by  the  counte- 
nance he  is  in  the  habit  of  wearing  every  day ;  to 
Bay  nothing  of  the  one  he  has  in  reserve  for  extra  oc- 
casions. The  reserve  is  only  a  counterfeit  of  the  one 
nature  gave  him,  though  perhaps  a  little  more  highly 
carved  and  polished.  If  there  are  some  faces  more 
striking  than  others,  there  are  some  voices  more  at- 


CABOLAN.  OT 

t)  active  than  others.  When  men  habitually  wear  a 
face  expressive  of  severity,  constantly  clouded  with 
frowns,  the  voice  is  sure  to  indicate  it.  It  is  no  more 
surprising  that  the  blind  should  discover  marks  of  re- 
cognition in  the  hand,  or  voice,  than  that  the.  seeing 
should  observe  differences  in  figure  and  dress.  Al- 
most any  one  can  distinguish  a  friend  from  a  stranger, 
even  in  the  dark,  by  the  sound  of  his  voice;  yet,  be- 
cause the  loss  of  sight  compels  one  to  resort  to  this 
method,  it  is  made  a  matter  of  wonderment  and  sur 
prise,  even  among  those  who  can  do  it  themselves. 

At  a  period  in  Carolan's  life  when  he  most  needed 
the  attention  of  a  kind  friend,  he  was  called  to  motirn 
the  loss  of  an  affectionate  wife.  After  this  sad  event 
Carolan  lived  but  five  years.  While  on  a  visit  at  the 
house  of  Mrs.  McDerinott,  of  Alderford,  in  the  county 
of  Roscommon,  he  died,  in  March,  1738,  in  the  sixty 
eighth  year  of  his  age. 

A  monody,  composed  by  him,  on  the  death  of  his 
wife,  we  subjoin : 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  MARY  MAGUIRK 

Were  mine  the  choice  of  intellectual  fame, 

Of  skillful  song  and  eloquence  divine. 
Painting's  sweet  power,  philosophy's  pure  flame, 

And  Homer's  lyre  and  Ossian's  harp  were  mine,- 
The  splendid  arts  of  Erin,  Greece,  and  Rome, 

In  Mary  lost,  would  love?  their  w  >iited  grace; 
All  would  I  give  to  snatch  her  from  the  tomb^ 

Again  to  fold  her  in  my  fond  embrace  I 


69  BKAUTIE8    OF    TilE    BLI.ND. 

Desponding,  sick,  exhausted  with  m^'  grief, 

Awhile  the  founts  of  sorrow  cease  to  flow , 
in  vain  I  rest,  and  sleep  brings  no  relief ; 

Cheerless,  companionless,  I  wake  to  woe. 
[f  jr  birth,  nor  beauty,  shall  again  allure, 

Nor  fortune  win  me  to  another  bride  ; 
Alone  I'll  wander,  and  alone  endure, 

Till  death  restore  me  to  my  dear  one's  side. 

Once  every  thought  and  every  scene  was  gay. 

Friends,  mirth,  and  music,  all  my  soul  enjoyed ; 
^ow  doom'd  to  mourn  my  last  sad  years  away  ; 

My  life  a  solitude,  my  heart  a  void. 
Alas  I  the  change,  to  change  again  no  more. 

For  every  comfort  is  with  Mary  fled  ; 
A.nd  ceaseless  anguish  shall  her  loss  deplore. 

Till  age  and  sorrow  join  me  with  the  dead. , 

Adieu  I  each  gift  of  nature  and  of  art, 

That  erst  adorn'd  me  in  life's  earliest  prime ; 
The  cloudless  temper  and  the  social  heart, 

The  soul  ethereal,  and  the  flight  sublime. 
Thj  loss,  my  Mary,  chas'd  them  from  my  breast ! 

Thy  sweetness  cheers,  thy  judgment  aids  no  mori 
The  muse  deserts  a  heart  with  grief  oppress' d, 

And  lost  is  every  joy  that  charm'd  before  I 


A  SONG. 


[The  following  lines  were  addressed  to  a  young  lady,  writter 
perhaps,  while  yet  our  poet's  harp  was  rapturously  tuned  to  th« 
weet  plaints  of  love  :] 

To  thee  harmonious  powers  belong, 
That  add  to  verse  the  charms  of  song, 
Soft  melodies  with  numbers  join, 
And  make  the  poet  half  divine. 


CAKOLAN.  69 

As  when  the  softly  blushing  rone, 
Ck  je  by  some  neighboring  lily  grows, 
Siu  h  is  the  glow  thy  cheeks  difTuse, 
And  such  their  bright  and  blended  hues  < 

The  timid  luster  of  thine  eye 
With  nature's  purest  tints  can  vie  : 
With  the  sweet  blue-bell's  azure  gem. 
Thai  .'••.•ops  upon  the  m'idest  sterol 

The  poets  of  lerni's  plains 
To  thee  devote  their  choicest  strains ; 
And     ft  their  harps  for  thee  are  strung, 
And  c  ft  thy  matchless  charms  are  sung. 

Since  the  fam'd  fair  of  ancient  days, 
Who;:,  bards  and  worlds  conspir'd  to  pratM> 
Not  oae  like  thee  has  since  appear' d, 
Like  thee  to  every  heart  endear' d. 

How  blest  the  bard,  0  lovely  maid  ! 
To  find  thee  in  thy  charms  arrayed; 
Thy  pearly  t#eth,  thy  flowing  hair, 
Thy  neck  beyond  the  cygnet  fair. 

Even  lie,  whose  hapless  eyes  no  ray 
Admit  from  beauty's  cheering  day; 
Yet  though  he  cannot  see  the  light, 
He  feels  it  warm,  and  knows  it  bright. 

In  bea"ty,  talents,  taste  refined, 
And  all  the  graces  of  the  mind. 
In  all,  unmatch'd  thy  charms  remaik 
Nor  me  it  a  rival  on  the  plain. 


THOMAS  BLACKLOCK,  D.  D. 

Sc  much  has  been  said  in  praise  of  this  excellent 
man  by  his  numerous  admirers,  that  a  volume  of  the 
present  size  could  not  contain  even  their  encomiums, 
much  less  a  detailed  account  of  his  eventful  life,  to- 
gether with  the  selections  we  wish  to  make  from  his 
writings.  "We  purpose,  therefore,  to  give,  in  this  con- 
nection, onlj  a  few  of  the  most  interesting  particulars 
of  his  life's  history. 

Rev.  Dr.  Blacklock  was  born  at  Annan,  Dumfrie- 
shire,  Scotland,  in  1721.  His  parents  were  of  a  highly 
respectable  class,  though  in  humble  circumstances. 
His  father  was  by  trade  a  bricklayer. ,  When  but  six 
months  old,  he  was  attacked  by  that  most  loathsome 
of  all  diseases,  the  small-pox,  which  entirely  destroyed 
his  sight.  This  misfortune,  it  was  supposed,  unfitted 
him  for  any  of  the  mechanical  pursuits,  nor  was  it 
thought  possible  for  him  to  attain  any  of  the  higher 
professions.  His  early  education,  however,  was  not 
entirely  neglected.  His  father,  to  whom  he  so  affec- 
tionately alludes  in  some  of  his  poems,  took  great 
pleasure  in  reading  for  his  sightless  boy ;  at  first  such 
publications  as  were  best  calculated  to  amuse  and  in 


THOMAS   BLACKLOOK,    D.    D.  71 

Struct  him,  and  afterward  such  works  as  Allan  Ramsay, 
Prior's  Poems,  and  the  Tattler,  Spectator  and  Guar- 
dian. In  this  way,  young  Blacklock  soon  acquired  a 
fondness  for  reading,  and  a  love  for  poetry. 

Quite  early  in  life,  Milton,  Spenser,  Pope  and  Ad- 
dison were  his  favorite  authors.  At  twelve  years  of 
age,  he  commenced  writing  verses  in  imitation  of 
them.  Some  of  these  early  productions,  it  is  said, 
were  not  inferior  to  many  of  the  premature  composi- 
tions by  schoolboys  possessing  the  best  advantages. 
At  the  early  age  of  nineteen,  his  father  was  accident- 
ally killed  by  the  falling  of  a  malt-kiln.  The  loss 
of  parents,  at  any  period  of  one's  life,  is  a  trying  af- 
fliction ;  and  it  may  well  be  supposed  that  the  young, 
poet  felt  his  loss  most  deeply.  The  few  hopes  he  had 
built  upon  his  father's  probable  success  in  life,  were 
suddenly  destroyed.  Thus  deprived  of  the  support 
on  which  his  youth  had  leaned,  and  left  in  destitute 
circumstances,  every  bright  prospect  of  future  fame 
faded  before  him,  leaving  only  clouds  of  despondency 
which,  later  in  life,  sometimes  threw  their  dark  shad- 
ows across  his  pathway.  After  this  sad  event,  he 
lived  about  a  year  with  his  mother,  and  was  consid- 
ered, fmong  his  personal  friends,  a  young  man  of  un- 
common ability. 

His  remarkable  talents  and  poetical  genius  soon 
attracted  the  notice  of  Dr.  Stephenson,  an  eminent 
physician  in  Edinburgh,  who  came  to  Dumfries  on  a 
professional  visit.  In  him,  Blacklock  found  a  warm 
friend  and  benefactor.     This  kind-hearted  gentleman 


73  BEAtrriES   OF  THE   BLIND. 

placed  him  at  a  grammar  school  in  the  S'iotch  me 
tropolis,  and  generously  volunteered  to  de'ray  the 
expenses  of  his  education.  Here  he  remained  under 
the  patronage  of  Dr.  Stephenson,  until  1745.  He 
then  returned  to  Dumfries,  where  he  resided  for  some 
time  with  his  brother-in-law,  in  whose  house  he  was 
ti'eated  with  kindness  and  affection. 

In  1746j  he  published  a  small  collection  of  his  po- 
ems, at  Glasgow.  Shortly  after,  he  returned  to  Edin- 
burgh, and  entered  the  University,  where  he  pursued 
his  studies  for  six  years,  longer.  He  soon  became 
master  of  Latin  and  Greek^  and,  it  is  said,  could  con- 
verse quite  fluently  in  the  French. 

In  1754,  he  published  at  Edinburgh  a  second  edition 
of  his  poems,  greatly  improved  and  enlarged,  to  which 
was  prefixed  an  account  of  his  life.  This  publication 
attracted  the  notice  of  Mr.  Spence,  Professor  of  Poetry 
at  Oxford,  who  was  first  to  call  the  attention  of  the 
public  to  the  true  native  genius  and  high  intellectual 
attainments  of  this  blind  student,  and  to  his  original- 
ity, as  a  poet.  Through  the  influence  of  the  celebra- 
ted David  Hume,  a  warm  friend  and  admirer  of 
Blacklock,  a  third  edition  of  his  poems  was  published 
in  London,  in  1756,  under  the  superintendence  of  Mr. 
Spence,  together  with  an  account  of  the  author's  life, 
and  a  very  elaborate  dissertation  upon  his  character 
and  superior  merits. 

About  this  time,  he  published  at  Edinburgh  a 
pamphlet  on  Universal  Etymology,  or  the  Analysis 
of  a  Sentence. 


THOMA8   BLACKLOCK,    D.    D.  73 

During  his  course  of  study  at  tlie  University,  h« 
acquired  a  knowledge  of  the  various  branches  of  phi 
losophy  and  theology,  nor  was  polite  literature  neg 
lected  by  him.  In  1767,  he  formed  the  design  of 
establishing  a  school  for  the  instruction  of  young  men 
in  oratory.  But  meeting  with  some  discouragement 
from  his  friends,  he  abandoned  the  project,  and  com- 
menced a  thorough  course  of  theological  study,  with 
the  intention  of  going  into  the  church  ;  and  was  ac- 
cordingly licensed,  in  1759,  by  the  presbytery  of 
Dumfries,  to  preach  the  gospel.  In  1760,  he  pub- 
lished an  able  sermon,  on  the  Right  Improvement  of 
Time.  "  The  sentiments  it  contains,"  says  Mr.  Wil- 
son, ''  are  just  and  solid,  and  the  advice  is  calculated 
to  be  useful  -.t  all  times,  particularly  in  the  the  pros- 
pect of  national  danger  or  distress."  In  1761,  he 
published  a  lengthy  discourse,  on  Faith,  Hope,  and 
Charity,  in  8vo. 

In  1762,  he  married  Miss  Sarah  Johnston,  of  Dum- 
fries, a  lady  of  highly  respectable  parentage.  Her 
fine  talents  and  generous  nature,  (personal  charms 
most  attractive  to  the  blind,)  combined  with  a  sweet- 
ness of  temper,  and  true  devotion  to  the  interests  of 
her  husband,  made  her  a  companion  worthy  of  his 
love  and  confidence,  and  a  star  in  the  evening  of  his 
life,  whose  mild  face  was  never  hid  among  clouds  of 
disappointment.  Shortly  after  this  event,  he  was 
ordained  minister  of  the  church  at  Kirkcudbright,  on 
the  presentation  of  the  Earl  of  Selkirk.  But  the  peo- 
ple, on  account  of  their  prejudices  toward  one  de- 
D 


74  BEATTTIES    OF   THE    BLIND. 

pnved  of  sight,  refused  to  receive  him  as  their  spir- 
itual guide.  "  Though  undoubtedly  blind  enough 
themselves,"  says  Mr.  Bowen.  "  they  did  not  like  the 
idea  of  having  a  blind  clergyman."  After  a  legal 
dispute  of  nearly  two  years,  he  was  at  last  induced 
to  compromise  the  matter,  by  resigning  his  situation 
and  receiving  a  small  annuity  instead. 

A  very  interesting  anecdote  is  related  of  him,  which 
shows  his  mental  anxiety  at  this  time,  and  deserves 
a  place  in  Dr.  Abercrombie's  chapter  on  Somnambu- 
lism. It  occurred  at  an  inn  in  Kirkcudbright.  "  Dr. 
Blacklock,  one  day,  harassed  by  the  censures  of  the 
populace,  whereby  not  only  his  reputation,  but  his 
very  existence  was  endangered,  and  fatigued  witli 
mental  exertion,  fell  asleep  after  dinner.  Some  hours 
after,  he  was  called  upon  by  a  friend,  answered  his 
salutation,  and  rose  and  went  with  him  into  the  dining- 
room,  where  some  of  hif  companions  were  met.  He 
joined  with  two  of  them  in  a  concert,  singing,  as 
usual,  with  taste  and  elegance,  without  missing  a  note, 
■>r  forgetting  a  word ;  he  then  went  to  supper,  and 
drank  a  glass  or  two  of  wine.  His  friends,  however, 
observed  him  to  be  a  little  absent  and  inattentive ; 
by  and  by  he  began  to  speak  to  himself,  but  in  so  low 
and  confused  a  manner  as  to  be  unintelligible.  At 
last,  being  pretty  forcibly  roused,  he  awoke  with  a 
sudden  start,  unconscious  of  all  that  had  liappenc  d, 
as,  till  then,  he  had  continued  fast  asleep." 

In  1764,  he  removed  to  Edinburgh,  and  opened  a 
boarding-house  for  young  men,  whom  he  proposed  to 


THOMAS   BLACKLOCK,   D.    D.  75 

instruct  in  philosophy  and  the  languages.  Shortly 
after,  the  University  of  Aberdeen  conferred  upon 
liim  the  degree  of  Doctor  of  Divinity.  In  1767,  he 
oublished  a  work  entitled  Consolation,  deduced  from 
Natural  and  Kevealed  Religion.  In  1773,  he  pub- 
lished a  satirical  poem  at  Edinburgh,  in  8vo.  He  was 
also  the  author  of  a  heroic  ballad,  in  four  cantos.  It 
may  not  be  generally  known  that  the  article  "  Blind," 
in  the  Encyclopedia  Britannica,  published  in  1783, 
was  written  by  him.  He  died  in  1791,  in  the  seven- 
tieth year  of  his  age,  and  was  interred  in  the  bury- 
ing-ground  of  Ease  Chapel. 

"Peace  to  thy  gentle  shade,  and  endless  pest! 
Bless'd  in  thy  genius,  in  thy  love,  too,  bless'd  I  " 

We  cannot  place  before  our  readers  a  richer  lite- 
rary feast,  than  our  poet's  beautiful  soliloquy,  copied 
*rom  his  Edinburgh  edition  : 

A  SOLILOQUY, 

lfcc€Urioned  by  the  author't  escape  from  faUing  into  a  deep  well  ^chere  he  mum 
kame  been  irrecoverably  lout,  if  a  favorite  lap'dog  had  not,  Vy  the  noimit  of  im 
/M  upon  the  board  tctih  which  t/ie  well  was  covered,  ^earned  him  of  danger. 

"  Qald  quisque  viret,  nunquam  bomini  satis 
(.'aatuni  esc  in  lioras."  Uorat. 

Where  am  1 1 — O  Eternal  Power  of  Heaven  I 
Relieve  me ;  or,  amid  the  silent  gloom, 
Can  Danger's  cry  approach  no  generous  ear, 
Prompt  to  redress  the  unhappy  ?     O  my  heart) 
What  shall  I  do,  or  whither  shall  I  turn  f 
Will  no  kind  hand,  benevolent  as  Heaven, 
Save  me,  involv'd  in  peril  and  iu  night  f 
Erect  with  horror  stands  my  bristling  hair  : 


76  BEAUTIES    OF   THE   BLIND. 

My  tongue  forgets  its  motion  ;  strength  forsakes 
My  trembling  limbs;  my  voice,  inipell'd  in  vain 
lio  passage  finds;  cuid,  cold  as  death,  my  blood. 
Keen  as  the  breath  of  winter,  chills  each  vein. 
For  on  the  verge,  the  awful  verge  of  fate 
Scarce  fix'd     I  stand  ;  and  one  progressive  step 
Had  plunged  me  down,  unfathomably  deep 
To  gulfs  impervious  to  the  cheerful  sun 
And  fragrant  breeze  ;  to  that  abhorr'd  abode, 
Wliere  Silence  and  Oblivion,  sisters  drear? 
With  cruel  Death  confed'rate  empire  hold. 
In  desolation  and  primeval  gloom. 

Hal  What  unmans  me  thus?    What,  more  than  horror 
Relaxes  every  nerve,  nntun^  my  frame. 
And  chills  my  inmost  soul? — Be  still,  my  heart! 
Nor  fluttering  thus  in  vain  attempt  to  burst 
The  barrier  firm,  by  whicli  thou  art  confin'd, 
Resume  your  functions,  limbs!  restrain  those  knees 
From  smiting  thus  each  other.     Rouse,  my  soul! 
Assert  thy  native  dignity,  and  dare 
To  brave  this  king  of  terrors  ;  to  confront 
His  cloudy  brow,  and  unrelenting  frown, 
With  steady  scorn,  in  conscious  triumph  bold. 
Reason  that  beam  of  uncreated  day. 
That  ray  of  Deity  by  God's  own  breath 
Infus'd  and  kindled,  reason  will  dispel 
Those  fancied  terrors:  reason  will  instruct  thee, 
That  death  is  Heaven's  kind  interposing  hand. 
To  snatch  thee  timely  from  impending  woe  ; 
From  aggregated  misery,  whose  pangs 
Can  find  no  other  period  but  the  grave. 

For,  oh  I  while  others  gaze  on  Nature's  face. 
The  verdant  vale,  the  mountains,  woods  and  streams ; 
Or,  with  delight  ineffable,  survey 
The  sun,  bright  image  of  his  parent  God ; 
The  seasons,  in  majestic  order,  round 
This  varied  globe  revolving;  young-eyed  Spring, 
Profuse  of  life  and  joy  ;    Summer,  adorn'd 
With  keen  effulgence,  brightening  heaven  and  earth  , 


THOMAS    BLAOKLOCK,    D.    D.  77 

JLTttumn,  replete  with  Nature's  various  boon. 

To  bless  tlie  toiling  hind  ;    and  Winter,  grand 

With  rapid  storms,  convulsing  Nature's  frame: 

Whilst  others  view  heaven's  all-iuvolving  arch, 

Bright  with  unnumber'd  worlds  ;  and  lost  in  joy. 

Fair  Order  and  Utility  behold  ; 

Or,  unfatigued,  the  amazing  chain  pursue, 

Which  in  one  vast,  all-comprehending  whole, 

Unites  th'  immense,  stupendous  works  of  God, 

Conjoining  part  with  part,  and  through  the  frame 

Diffusing  sacred  harmony  and  joy  ; 

To  me  those  fair  vicissitudes  are  lost, 

And  grace  and  beauty  blotted  from  my  view. 

The  verdant  vale,  the  mountains,  woods,  and  streama 

One  horrid  blank  appear  ;  the  joimg-eyed  Spring, 

Effulgent  Summer,  Autumn  decked  in  wealth 

To  bless  the  toiling  hind,  and  Winter  grand 

With  rapid  storms,  revolve  in  vain  for  me : 

Nor  the  bright  sua,  nor  all-embracing  arch 

Of  heaven,  shall  e'er  these  wretched  orbs  behold. 

O  Beauty,  Harmony  I  ye  sister  train 
Of  graces;  you,  who,  in  th'  admiring  eye 
Of  God  your  charms  displajed,  ere  yet  transcrib'd  ' 

On  Nature's  form,  your  heavenly  features  shone. 
Why  are  you  snatched  forever  from  my  sight. 
Whilst  in  ^our  stead,  a  boundless  waste  expanse 
Of  undistinguish'd  horror  covers  all  I 
Wide  o'er  my  prospect  rueful  darkness  breathes 
Her  inausi^icious  vapor;  in  whose  shade. 
Fear,  Grief,  and  Anguish,  natives  of  her  reign, 
In  social  sadness,  gloomy  vigils  keep : 
With  them  I  walk,  with  them  still  doom'd  to  share 
Eternal  blackness,  without  hope  of  dawn. 

Hence,  oft  tiie  hand  of  Ignorance  and  Scorn, 
To  barbarous  Mirth  abandou'd,  points  me  out 
With  idiot  grin  :  the  suy)erciliou8  eye 
Oft,  from  the  noise  and  glare  of  prosperous  life 
On  my  obscurity  diverts  its  gaze, 
Exulting,  and,  with  wanton  pride  elate. 


78  BEAUTIES   OF    THE    BLIND. 

Felicitates  its  own  auperior  lot: 

Inhuman  triumph  !    Hence  the  piercing  taunt 

Of  titled  insolence  inflicted  deep. 

Hence  the  warm  blush  that  paints  ingenuous  shame 

By  conscious  want  inspir'd  ;  th'  uupitied  pang 

Of  love  and  friendship  slighted.     Hence  the  tear 

Of  impotent  compassion,  when  the  voice 

Of  pain,  by  others  felt,  quick  smites  my  heart 

And  rouses  all  its  tenderness  in  vain. 

All  these,  and  more,  on  this  devoted  head. 

Have  with  collected  bitterness  been  pour'd. 

Nor  end  my  sorrows  here.     The  sacred  fane 
Of  knowledge,  scarce  accessible  to  me. 
With  heart-consuming  anguish  I  behold  ; 
Knowledge,  for  which  my  soul  insatiate  burns 
With  ardent  thirst     Nor  can  these  useless  handS; 
Untutored  in   each  life-sustaining  art. 
Nourish  this  wretched  being,  and  supply 
Frail  nature's  wants,  that  short  cessation  know. 

Where  now,  ah  I  where  is  that  supporting  arm 
Which  to  my  weak,  unequal  infant  steps. 
Its  kind  assistance  lent?*     Ah  I  where  that  love, 
•  That  strong  assiduous  tenderness,  which  watch'd 

My  wishes  yet  scarce  form'd  ;  and  to  my  view, 
Unimportun'd,  like  all-indulging  Heav'n, 
Their  objects  brought?     Ah!  where  that  gentle  voic« 
Which,  with  instruction,  soft  as  summer  dewa 
Or  fleecy  snows,  descending  on  my  soul, 
Distinguish'd  every  hour  with  new  delight  f 
Ah  1  where  that  virtue,  which  amid  the  storma 
Clie  mingled  horrors  of  tumultuous  life, 
Jntainted,  unsubdued,  the  shock  sustain'd  S 
Wo  firm  the  oak  which,  in  eternal  night, 
As  deep  its  root  extends,  as  high  to  Heaven 
Its  top  majestic  rises ;  such  the  smile 
Of  some  benignant  angel,  from  the  throne 
Of  God  dispatch'd,  ambassador  of  peace  ; 

•  Itiw  oiiaracter  here  drawn  Is  that  of  the  autlior's  father,  whoso  nnfor<»s«en  tat» 
nwl  tuxt  before  happened :  be  was  klllod  by  the  fall  of  a  malt  kilu. 


THOMAS   BLAOEX.OGK,    D.    D.  79 

Who  on  his  look  impress'd  his  message  bears, 
A^nd  pleas'd,  from  earth  averts  impending  ill 
Alas  I  no  wife  thy  parting  kisses  shar'd ; 
From  thy  expiring  lips  no  child  receiv'd 
Thy  last,  dear  blessing,  and  thy  last  advice. 
Friwjd,  father,  benefactor,  all  at  once. 
In  thee  forsook  me,  an  unguarded  prey 
For  every  storm,  whose  lawless  fury  roars 
Beneath  the  azure  concave  of  the  sky", 
To. toss,  and  on  my  head  exhaust  its  rage. 

Dejecting  prospect !  soon  the  hapless  hour 
May  come  ;  perhaps  this  moment  it  impends, 
Wliich  drives  me  forth  to  penury  and  cold. 
Naked,  and  beat  by  all  the  storms  of  heaven, 
Friendless  and  guideless  to  explore  my  way  ; 
Till  on  cold  earth  this  poor  unshelter'd  head 
Reclining,  vainly  from  the  ruthless  blast 
Respite  I  beg,  and  in  the  shock  expire. 

Me  miserable  I  wherefore,  O  my  soul ! 
Was,  on  such  hard  conditions,  life  desir'd  f 
One  step,  one  friendly  step,  without  thy  guil^ 
Had  plac'd  me  safe  in  this  profound  recess, 
Where,  undisturb'd,  eternal  quiet  reigns 
And  sweet  forgetfulness  of  grief  and  care. 
Why,  then,  my  coward  soul  I  didst  thou  recoil  I 
Why  shun  the  final  exit  of  thy  woe  ? 
Why  shiver  at  approaching  dissolution? 

Say,  why,  by  nature's  unresisted  force, 
Is  every  being,  where  volition  reigns 
And  active  choice,  impell'd  to  shun  their  fate, 
And  dread  destruction  as  the  worst  of  ills; 
Say,  why  they  shrink,  why  fly,  why  fight,  why  risk 
Precarious  life,  to  lengthen  out  its  state. 
Which,  lengthen'd,  is  at  best  protracted  pain  I 
Saj',  by  what  mystic  charms,  can  life  allure 
Unnumber'd  beings,  who,  beneath  me  far 
Plac'd  in  th'  extensive  scale  of  nature,  want 
Those  blessings  Heaven  accumulates  on  me  I 
Blessings  superior ;  though  the  blaze  of  day 


80  BKADTIK8    OK    iHK    BLIND; 

Pours  on  their  sight  its  soul-refreshing  streani^ 

To  me  extinct  in  everlasting  shades  : 

Yet  heaven-taught  music,  at  whose  powerful  vcic« 

Corrosive  care  and  anguish,  charm'd  to  peace^ 

Forsake  the  heart,  and  yield  it  all  to  joy. 

Ne'er  soothes  their  pangs.     To  their  insensate  vie^ 

Knowledge  in  vain  her  fairest  treasure  spreads. 

To  them  the  noblest  gift  of  bounteous  Heaven^ 

Sweet  conversation,  whose  enlivening  force 

Elates,  distends,  and,  with  unfading  strength. 

Inspires  the  soul,  remains  forever  lost. 

The  sacred  sympathy  of  social  hearts ; 

Benevolence,  supreme  delight  of  heaven  ; 

Th'  extensive  wish,  which  in  one  wide  embrace 

All  beings  circles,  when  the  swelling  soul 

Partakes  the  joys  of  God,  ne'er  warms  their  breasta. 

As  yet,  my  soul  ne'er  felt  th'  oppressive  weight 
Of  indigence  unaided  ;  swift  redress, 
Beyond  the  daring  flight  of  hope,  approached. 
And  every  wish  of  nature  amply  bless' d, 
Tliough,  o'er  the  future  series  of  my  fate, 
111  omens  seem  to  brood,  and  stare  malign 
To  blend  their  baneful  fire:  while  tlie  sun 
Darts  boundless  glorj-  through  th'  expanse  «f  heav«n. 
A  gloom  of  congregated  vapors  rise. 
Than  night  more  dreadful  in  her  blackest  shroud, 
And_o'er  the  face  of  things  incumbent  hang. 
Protruding  tempest ;  till  the  source  of  day 
Again  asserts  the  empire  of  the  sky. 
And  o'er  the  blotted,  scene  of  nature,  throws 
A  keener  splendor.     So,  poihaps,  that  care. 
Through  all  creation  lelt,  but  most  by  man, 
Which  hears  with  kind  regard  the  tender  sigh 
Of  modest  want,  may  dissipate  my  fears, 
And  bid  my  hours  a  happier  flight  assume. 
Perhaps,  enlivening  hope !  perhaps  ray  soul 
May  drink  at  Wisdom's  fountains,  and  allay 
Her  uncxtinguish'd  ardor  in  the  stream : 
Wisdom,  the  constant  magnet,  where  each  wish, 


THOMAS    BLACKLOOK,    D.    D.  81 

Set  by  the  hand  of  Nature,  ever  points, 
Restless  and  faitiiful,  as  the  attractive  force 
By  which  all  bodies  to  the  center  tend. 

What  then  I  because  th'  indulgent  sire  of  all 
Has,  in  the  plan  of  tilings,  prescrib'd  my  sphere. 
Because  consummate  Wisdom  thought  not  fit, 
In  affluence  and  pomp,  to  bid  me  shine  ; 
Shall  I  regret  my  destiny,  and  curse 
That  state,  by  Heaven's  paternal  care  design'd 
To  train  me  up  for  scenes,  with  which  compar'd. 
These  ages,  measured  by  the  orbs  of  heaven. 
In  blank  annihilation  fade  away  f 
For  scenes,  where,  fiuish'd  by  th'  Almighty  art, 
Beauty  and  order  open  to  the  sight 
In  vivid  glory;  where  the  faintest  rays 
Out-flash  the  splendor  of  our  midday  sun! 
Say,  shall  the  Source  of  all,  who  first  assign'd 
To  each  constituent  of  this  wondrous  frame 
Its  proper  powers,  its  place  and  action  due. 
With  due  degrees  of  weakness,  where  results 
Concord  ineffable ;  shall  he  revei"se 
Or  disconcert  the  universal  scheme. 
The  general  good,  to  flatter  selfish  pride 
And  blind  desire? — Before  th'  Almighty  voice 
From  non-existence  call'd  me  into  life. 
What  claim  had  I  to  being?     What  to  shine 
In  this  high  rank  of  creatures,  form'd  to  climb 
The  steep  ascent  of  virtue  unrelax'd. 
Till  infinite  perfection  crown  their  toil? 
Who,  conscious  of  their  origin  divine. 
Eternal  order,  beauty,  truth,  and  good. 
Perceive,  like  their  great  Parent,  and  admire. 

Hush!  th^n,  my  heart,  with  pious  cares  suppress 
Tills  timid  pride,  and  impotence  of  soul : 
Learn,  now,  why  all  those  multitudes  which  crowd 
This  spacious  theater,  and  gaze  on  heaven. 
Invincibly  averse  to  meet  their  fate. 
Avoid  each  danger;  know  this  sacred  truth, 
▲Il-pcrfect  Wisdom,  on  each  living  aoul, 
D* 


B2  BEAUTIES   OF  THE  BLIND. 

jGngrar'd  this  mandate,  to  preserve  their  frame 
And  hold  entire  the  general  orb  of  being. 
Then,  with  becoming  reverence,  let  each  pew  r, 
In  deep  attention,  hear  the  voice  of  God-, 
That  awfnl  Toioe,  which,  speaking  to  the  aoui, 
Commands  its  resignation  to  his  law  I . 

For  this,  has  Heaven  to  virtue's  glorious  stage 
Call'd  me,  and  placed  the  garland  in  my  view, 
The  wreath  of  conquest ;  basely  to  desert 
The  part  assigned  me,  and  with  dastard  fear, 
From  present  pain,  the  cause  of  future  bliss, 
To  shrink  into  the  bosom  of  the  grave  f 
How,  then,  is  gratitude's  vast  debt  repaid  I 
Where  all  the  tender  offices  of  love 
Due  to  fraternal  man,  in  which  the  heart 
Each  blessing  it  communicates,  enjoys  I 
How  then  shall  I  obey  the  first  great  law 
Of  nature's  legislator,  deep  impress'd 
With  double  sanction,  restless  fear  of  death, 
And  fondness  still  to  breathe  this  vital  airf 
Nor  is  th'  injunction  hard ;  who  would  not  sink 
Awhile  in  tears  and  sorrow,  then  emerge 
With  ten-fold  luster,  triumph  o'er  his  pain, 
And  with  unfading  glory,  shine  in  heaven  f 

Come,  then,  my  little  guardian  genius  1  Cloth'd 
In  that  familiar  form, my  Phylax,  come! 
Let  me  caress  thee,  hug  thee  to  my  heart, 
Which  beats  with  joy  of  life  preserved  by  thee. 
Had  not  thy  interposing  fondness  stay'd 
My  blind  precipitation,  now,  e'en  now, 
My  soul,  by  nature's  sharpest  pangs  expell'd 
Had  left  this  frame ;  had  pass'd  the  dreadful  bouno* 
Which  life  from  death  divides,  divides  this  scene 
From  vast  eternity,  whose  deep'ning  shades. 
Impervious  to  the  sharpest  mortal  sight. 
Elude  our  honest  search. — But  still  I  err. 
Howe'er  thy  grateful,  undesigning  heart, 
In  ills  foreseen,  with  promptitude  might  aid ; 
Vet  this,  beyond  thy  utmost  reach  of  thought,  . 


TUOMAB   BLACKLOOK,    D.    D.  83 

Not  e'en  remotely  distant  couldst  thou  view. 
Secure  thy  steps  the  fragile  board  could  press, 
Nor  feel  the  least  alarm,  where  I  had  sunk ; 
Nor  couldst  thou  judge  the  awful  depth  below 
Which,  from  its  watery  bottom,  to  receive 
My  fall,  tremendous  yawn'd.     Thy  utmost  skill. 
Thy  deepest  penetration  here  had  stopt 
Short  of  its  aim ;  and  in  the  strong  embrace 
Of  ruin  struggling,  left  me  to  expire. 
No— Heaven's  high  sovereign,  provident  of  ail, 
Thy  passive  organs  moving,taught  thee  first 
To  cheek  my  heedless  course,  and  hence  I  live. 

Eternal  Providence  I  whose  equal  sway 
Weighs  each  event,  whose  ever  wakeful  care, 
Connecting  high  with  low,  minute  with  great, 
Attunes  the  wondrous  whole,  and  bids  each  parw 
In  one  unbroken  hannony  conspire ; 
Haill  sacred  Source  of  happiness  and  lifel 
Substantial  Good,  bright,  intellectual  Sun ! 
To  whom  my  soul,  by  sympathy  innate. 
Unwearied  tends  ;  and  finds  in  thee,  alone. 
Security,  enjoyment,  and  repose. 
By  thee,  0  God !  by  thy  paternal  arm. 
Through  every  period  of  my  infant  state 
Sustain'd,  I  live  to  yield  thee  praises  due. 
O  I  could  my  lays  with  heavenly  raptures  warm 
High  as  thy  throne,  reecho  to  the  songs 
Of  angels ;  thence,  0  I  could  my  prayer  obtain 
One  beam  of  inspiration,  to  inflame 
And  animate  my  numbers  ;  Heaven's  full  choir. 
In  loftier  strains,  th'  inspiring  God  might  sing  ; 
Yet  not  more  ardent,  more  sincere  than  mine. 
But,  though  my  voice,  beneath  the  seraph's  note. 
Must  check  its  feeble  accents,  low  depress'd 
By  dull  mortality :  to  thee,  great  Soul 
Of  heaven  and  earth  1  to  thee  my  hallow'd  strain 
Of  gratitude  and  praise  shall'  still  ascend. 


LIFE  OF  RUBER. 

It  Has  been  observed  by  writers,  thai  there  is  no 
misfortune  to  whicli  mankind  is  exposed,  that  so 
effectuallj  shuts  from  us  the  book  of  nature  and 
knowledge,  as  that  of  physical  blindness.  Yet,  when 
we  take  into  consideration  the  scores  of  blind  per- 
sons, (many  of  them  so  from  birth  or  early  in  life,)  in 
almost  every  age  and  country,  whose  names  are  re- 
gistered high  on  the  scroll  of  fame,  for  their  attain- 
ments in  literature  and  the  arts,  and  their  important 
service  in  the  development  of  science,  since  its  early 
dawn  upon  mankind,  we  are  at  an  utter  loss  to  de- 
termine from  what  strange  oracle  these  writers  have 
received  such  disparaging  impressions,  or  what  mode 
of  reasoning  tliey  hav<»^  adopted,  to  arrive  at  such 
conclusions- 

It  is  a  well  known  matter  of  fact,  as  well  as  his- 
tory, that  there  is  scarcely  a  single  branch  of  natural 
science  yet  developed,  requiring  the  minutest  calcu- 
Jation  or  ])rofoundest  thought,  in  which  blind  persons 
have  not  been  celebrated  proficients.  The  most  in- 
tricate problems  of  mathematics  they  have  demon- 
strated with  ease ;  to  the  beautiful  science  of  chem- 
istry they  have  added  many  valuable  experiments  : 
hydrostatics,  hydraulics,  acoustics,  and  optics,  have 


HUBEB.  85 

been  to  them  themes  of  entertainment  and  deliglit ; 
and  even  the  motion  of  the  heavenly  bodies  they  have 
determined  with  accuracy,  and  the  two  noblest  poems 
that  yet  gem  the  literary  heavens,  at  this  Augustin 
*ge,  are  the  productions  of  the  blind. 

With  such  truths  before  us,  refulgent  tis  the  noon- 
day sun,  we  cannot  help  thinking  that,  whoever  seeks 
to  maintain  that  the  immortal  mind  of  man  must  re- 
main ignorant  and  unemployed,  for  the  only  reas  -n 
that  one  of  its  avenues  to  the  external  world  of 
knowledge  has  become  obstructed,  is  guilty  of  the 
grossest  inconsistency,  and  shows  himself  destitute 
of  the  most  important  of  all  senses  —  common  sense. 

To  receive  that  knowledge  through  other  mediums 
of  the  mind,  usually  conveyed  through  that  of  the 
eye,  is,  we  confess,  in  many  instances  inconvenient ; 
but  whoever  has  not  sufficient  force  of  character  to 
grapple  with  such  difficulties  in  the  pursuit  of  knowl- 
edge, would,  under  the  most  favorable  circumstances, 
arrive  at  no  great  celebrity.  How  the  difficulties 
which  the  loss  of  sight  occasions,  may  be  overcome 
by  ingenuity  and  perseverance,  even  in  the  investi- 
gation of  those  sciences  requiring  the  minutest  obser- 
vation, the  achievments  of  this  naturalist  have  cheer- 
ingly  illustrated. 

Francis  Huber  was  born  at  Geneva,  on  the  2d  of 
July,  1750,  of  an  honorable  family,  in  which  origi- 
nality and  vivacity  of  mind  formed  a  distinguishing 
characteristic.  His  father,  John  Hirber,  had  the  rep- 
utation of  being  one  of  the  most  witty  men  of  his  age, 


86  BEAUTIES    OF   THE   BLIND. 

a  trait  which  was  frequently  noticed  bj  Voltaire,  who 
valued  him  for  the  originality  6f  his  conversation.. 
He  was  an  agreeable  musician,  and  no  inferior  poet. 
To  these  accomplishments  he  joined  the  taste  and  art 
of  observing  the  peculiarities  of  the  animal  creation. 

His  love  of  natural  history  as  well  as  his  brilliancy 
of  mind  were  completely  inherited  by  his  son.  The 
latter  attended  from  his  childhood  the  public  lectures 
at  the  college,  and,  under  the  guidance  of  good  mas- 
ters, he  acquired  a  predilection  for  literature,  which 
the  conversation  of  his  father  served  to  develop.  He 
derived  his  fondness  for  science  from  the  lessons  of 
De  Saussure,  and  from  manipulations  in  the  labora- 
tory of  one  of  his  relatives,  who  ruined  himself  in 
searching  for  the  philosopher's  stone. 

At  the  age  of  fifteen,  his  general  health  and  his 
sight  began  to  be  impaired.  The  zeal  with  which  he 
pursued  his  studies,  constituting  his  highest  pleasure, 
and  his  unremitting  apiilication  to  reading  by  the 
feeble  light  of  a  lamp,  or  that  of  the  moon,  were,  it  is 
said,  the  causes  which  threatened  at  once  the  loss  of 
health  and  of  sight.  His  father  took  him  to  Paris,  to 
consult  Tronchin  on  account  of  his  health,  and  Yen- 
zel,  on  the  condition  of  his  eyes. 

With  a  view  to  his  general  health,  Tronchin  sent 
him  to  an  agricultural  district  near  Paris,  to  divert 
his  attention  from  all  laborious  study.  He  there 
practiced  the  life  of  a  simple -peasant,  engaging  in 
those  rural  concerns  that  never  fail  to  give  quietude 
of  mind,  and  healthful  activity  to  tlie  body.     This 


HUBEB.  87 

recreation  proved  happily  effectual,  and  Huber  ever 
after  not  only  retained  confirmed  health,  but  a  tender 
recollection  and  decided  taste  for  rural  life. 

But  Venzel,  his  oculist,  was  not  so  successful.  The 
cataracts  which  had  been  forming  on  Huber's  eyes 
were  then  considered  irremovable  ;  it  was,  therefore, 
announce^  to  him  that  he  must  be  doomed  to  utter 
blindness.  i)ui  before  his  departure,  he  found  a  con- 
genial spirit  in  the  person  of  Maria  Aimee  LuUin,  a 
daughter  of  one  of  the  syndics  of  the  Swiss  republic ; 
and  such  a  mutual  love  was  cherished  by  them  as 
the  age  of  seventeen  is  apt  to  produce.  But  fearing 
that  the  loss  of  sight  might  unfavorably  affect  the 
deare'st  object  of  his  affections,  he  resorted  to  dissim- 
ulation. While  he  could  discern  a  ray  of  light,  he 
acted  and  spoke  as  if  he  could  see  perfectly,  and  of- 
ten beguiled  his  own  misfortune  by  such  pretences. 
But  M.  Lullin,  possessing  the  true  heart  of  woman, 
and  being  inspired  by  that  love  not  based  upon  mere 
policy  or  expediency,  remained  constant  to  the  favor- 
ite companion  of  her  youth,  notwithstanding  the  de- 
termined opposition  of  her  father.  As  soon  as  she 
had  attained  her  majority,  she  presented  herself  at 
the  altar  with  him  who  had  been  her  choice,  and  to 
the  amelioration  of  whose  sad  misfortune  she  now  de- 
termined to  devote  her  life. 

Madame  Huber  proved,  by  her  attachment  to  his 
interest,  herself  worthy  of  so  true  and  ardent  a  lover. 
During  the  forty  years  of  their  union,  she  never 
ceased  to  bestow  upon  her  husband  the  kindest  atteu- 


OO  BEADllES    OF   THE    BLIND. 

tion.  She  was  his  reader,  his  secretary,  his  observer, 
and  she  removed,  as  far  as  possible,  all  those  embar 
rassments  which  would  naturally  arise  from  his  de- 
privation. Her  husband,  in  alluding  to  her  small 
stature,  would  say  of  her,  "  mens  magna  in  corpore 
parvo."  As  long  as  she  lived,  said  he,  I  was  not  sen- 
sible of  my  misfortune. 

We  have  known  the  blind  to  surmount  obstacles  in 
the  pursuit  of  knowledge,  that  made  them  the  wonder 
of  their  age ;  but  it  was  reserved  for  Huber  to  give  a 
luster  to  his  class,  in  the  sciences  of  observation,  and 
upon  objects  so  minute  that  the  most  clear-sighted 
investigator  can  scarcely  observe  them.  The  read- 
ing of  the  works  of  Reaumer  and  Bonnet,  and  the 
conversation  of  the  latter,  directed  his  curiot^ity  to 
the  history  of  bees.  His  habitual  residence  in  the 
country  inspired  him  with  the  desire,  first,  of  verifying 
some  facts,  then  of  filling  some  blanks  in  their  his- 
tory ;  but  this  kind  of  observation  required  not  only 
the  finest  optical  instruments,  but  an  intelligent  as- 
sistant. For  this  latter  purpose  he  instructed  his  ser- 
vant, named  Francis  Burnens,  (remarkable  for  his 
sagacity  and  devotion  to  his  master,)  whom  he  di- 
rected in  his  researches,  and  by  questions  adroitly 
combined,  aided  by  his  wife  and  friends,  he  rectified 
the  assertions  of  his  assistant,  and  became  enabled  to 
form,  in  his  own  mind,  a  perfect  image  of  the  minu- 
test facts.  "  1  am  much  more  certain  of  what  I  de- 
clare to  the  world  than  you  are,"  said  he  to  his  friend 
one  dav  smiling;  "for  you  publish  what  your  own 


HUBKK.  89 

eves  oniy  have  seen,  while  I  take  the  mean  among 
many  witnesses." 

The  publication  of  his  first  observations  appeared 
in  1792,  in  the  form  of  lettei*s  to  Ch.  Bonnet,  under 
the  title  of  "  Nouvelles  Observation  sue  les  Abeilles." 
This  work  made  a  strong  impression  upon  many  nat- 
uralists, not  only  from  the  novelty  of  its  facts,  but 
from  their  rigorous  exactness,  and  the  amazing  dil- 
ficulty  which  the  author  overcame  with  so  much  abil- 
ity. But  his  investigations  were  neither  relaxed  by 
the  flattering  reception  of  his  first  publication,  (which 
might  have  been  sufficient  to  gratify  his  self-love,) 
nor  even  by  his  separation  from  his  faithful  Bu/nens. 

The  origin  of  the  wax  was,  at  that  time,  a  point  in 
the  history  of  bees  much  disj^uted  by  naturalists. 
By  some  it  was  asserted,  though  witliout  sufficient 
proof,  that  it  was  fabricated  by  the  bee  from  the 
honey.  Huber,  who  had  already  happily  cleared  up 
the  origin  of  the  propolis,  confirmed  this  opinion  with 
respect  to  the  wax,  by  numerous  observations ;  and 
showed  very  particularly  (what  baffled  the  skill  of 
all  naturalists  before  him)  how  it  escaped  in  a  lami- 
nated form  from  between  the  rings  of  the  abdomen. 

During  the  course  of  his  observations  with  Bur- 
nens,  his  wife  and  son  for  assistants,  he  instituted  la- 
borious researches  to  discover  how  the  bees  prepare 
it  for  their  edifices.  He  followed  step  by  step  the 
whole  construction  of  those  wonderful  hives,  whica 
seem,  by  their  perfection,  to  resolve  the  most  delicate 
roblems  of  geometry;  he  assigned  to  each  class  of 


90  BEAUTIES    OF   THE   BLIND.  • 

bees  the  part  it  takes  in  this  construction,  and  traced 
their  labors  from  the  rudiments  of  the  first  cell  to  the 
completed  perfection  of  the  comb.  He  made  known 
the  ravages  which  the  sphinx  atropos  produces  in  the 
hives ;  he  made  ingenious  inquiries  respecting  the 
locality  and  history  of  the  bee's  senses ;  he  discov 
ered  that  they  consume  oxygen  gas  like  other  ani 
mals,  and  how  by  a  particular  motion  of  their  wings, 
they  renovate  the  atmosphere  in  the  hive. 

Since  the  days  and  brilliant  achievements  of  Hu- 
ber,  naturalists  have  not  been  able  to  add  any  consid- 
erable discovery  to  the  history  of  bees.  The  second 
volume  of  his  observations  was  published  in  1814, 
and  was  edited  in  part  by  his  son.  Huber  was  con- 
sidered by  his  cotemporaries  worthy  of  a  place  in  the 
class  of-special  observers.  Most  of  the  academies  of 
Europe  (and  especially  those  of  Paris)  admitted  Hu- 
ber, from  time  to  time,  among  their  associates. 

But  his  valuable  contributions  to  science  were  not 
the  only  tributaries  to  his  fame.  As  a  writer,  he  pos- 
sessed more  than  ordinary  merit.  The  elegance  of 
his  style,  the  height  of  imagination,  and  correctness 
of  his  imagery,  lead  ■  us  to  infer  that  he  might  have 
been  a  poet  as  weM  as  naturalist.  In  the  various  re- 
lations of  life,  he  displayed  such  sweetness  oftempei 
as  made  him  beloved  by  all  his  large  circle  of  friends. 
He  spent  the  evening  of  his  life  at  Lausanne,  under 
the  care  of  his  daughter,  Madame  de  Molin. 

Huber  retained  his  faculties  to  the  last.  At  the 
age  of  eighty-one,  in  a  letter  to  one  of  his  friends,  he 


HUBER.  91 

writes  thus  :  "  Tliere  is  a  time  when  it  is  impossible 
to  remain  neglectful ;  it  is  when  separating  gradually 
from  each  other,  we  may  reveal  to  those  we  love  all 
that  esteem,  tenderness,  and  gratitude  have  inspired 
as  with  towards  them."  He  farther  adds  :  "  Resig- 
nation and  serenity  are  blessings  which  have  not  been 
••efused."  He  wrote  these  lines  on  the  20th  of  De- 
cember, 1831,  and  on  the  22d  he  was  no  more.  His 
life  became  extinct,  without  pain  or  agony,  while  in 
the  arms  of  his  daughter. 

None  of  his  writings  previous  to  this  have  been 
published  in  the  United  States.  "We  favor  our  read- 
ers with  several  extracts,  from  a  copy  of  his  work  on 
bees,  imported  by  ourselves  for  this  purpose.  A  few 
ingenious  experiments,  elucidating  portions  in  their 
Lbtory,  dark  to  naturalists  prior  to  his  researches, 
must,  however,  suffice. 


EXPERIMENTS  RELATI 7E  TO  THE  FORMATION  OF  SWARMS 

I  now  proceed  to  experiments  proving  that  an  old 
queen  always  conducts  the  first  swarm  : 

One  of  my  glass  hives  consisted  of  three  parallel 
combs,  placed  in  frames  opening  like  the  leaves  of  a 
book.  It  was  well  peopled,  and  abundantly  provided 
with  honey  and  wax,  and  with  brood  of  every  differ 
ent  age.  On  the  5th  of  May,  1787,  I  removed  its 
queen,  and,  on  the  6th,  transferred  all  the  bees  from 
another  hive  into  it,  with  a  fertile  queen  at  least  a 


92  BKAirriES  of  the  blind. 

year  old.  They  entered  easily  and  without  fighting, 
and  were  in  general  well  received.  The  old  inhabi- 
tants of  the  hive,  which,  since  privation  of  their 
queen,  had  begun  twelve  royal  cells,  also  gave  the 
fertile  qneen  a  good  reception  ;  they  presented  her 
with  honey,  and  surrounded  her  in  regular  circles. 
However,  there  was  a  little  agitation  in  the  evening, 
though  confined  to  the  surface  of  the  comb  where  we 
had  put  the  queen,  and  which  she  had  not  quittad, 
for  all  was  perfectly  quiet  on  the  other  side. 

On  the  morning  of  the  7th,  the  bees  had  destroyed 
the  twelve  royal  cells ;  but,  independent  of  that,  or- 
der continued  prevalent  in  the  hive  ;  the  queen  laid 
the  eggs  of  males  in  the  large  cells,  and  those  of 
workers  in  the  small  ones  respectively. 

Towards  the  12th,  we  found  the  bees  occupied  in 
constructing  twenty-two  royal  cells,  of  the  same  spe- 
cies described  by  M.  de  Reaumur  ;  that  is,  the  bases 
not  in  the  plane  of  the  comb,  but  appended  perpen- 
dicularly by  pedicles  or  stalks  of  ditferent  length, 
like  stalactites,  on  the  edge  of  the  passage  made  by 
the  bees  through  their  combs.  They  bore  considera- 
ble resemblance  to  the  ctip  of  an  acorn,  the  longest 
being  only  about  two  lines  and  a  half  in  depth  froui 
the  bottom  to  the  orifice. 

On  the  13th,  the  queen  seemed  already  more  slen- 
der than  when  iutrodiiced  into  the  hive  ;  however, 
she  still  laid  some  eggs,  both  in  common  cells  and 
those  of  males. 

We  also  surprised  her  this  day  laying  in  a  roya 


HITBER.  OS 

cell ;  she  first  dislodged  the  worker  there  employed, 
by  pushing  it  away  with  her  liead,  and  tlien  supported 
herself  by  the  adjoining  cells  while  depositing  the 

On  the  15th,  the  size  of  the  queen  was  yet  farther 
reduced  ;  the  bees  continued  their  attention  to  the 
royal  cells,  which  were  all  unequally  advanced,  some 
to  the  height  of  three  or  four  lines,  while  others  were 
already  an  inch  long;  thus  proving  that  the  queen 
luid  not  laid  in  the  wliole  at  the  same  time.  At  the 
moment  when  least  expected,  the  hive  swarmed  on 
the  19t]i  ;  we  were  warned  of  it  by  the  noise  in  the 
air,  and  hastened  to  collect  and  put  the  bees  into  a 
hive  purposely  prepared.  Though  we  had  overlooked 
the  facts  attending  the  departure  of  this  swarm,  the 
o1)ject  of  the  experiment  was  fulfilled  ;  for,  on  exam- 
ination of  all  the  bees,  we  were  convinced  they  had 
been  conducted  by  the  old  queen,  by  her  that  we  in- 
troduced on  the  6th  of  the  month,  and  which  had 
been  deprived  of  one  of  the  antense.  Observe,  there 
was  no  other  queen  in  tliis  colony.  In  the  hive  she 
liad  left  we  found  seven  royal  cells  close  at  the  top, 
but  open  at  the  side,  and  quite  empty.  Eleven  more 
were  sealed,  and  some  others  newly  begun  ;  no  queen 
remained  in  the  hive.  The  new  swarm  next  became 
tlie  object  of  our  attention  ;  we  observed  it  during 
the  rest  of  the  year,  in  winter  and  the  subsequent 
spring ;  and,  in  April,  we  had  the  satisfaction  of  see- 
uig  another  depart  with  the  same  queen  at  its  head 


94  BEAUTIES   OP  THE  BLIND. 

that  had  conducted  the  former  one  in  May  of  th^ 
preceding  year. 

You  will  remark,  sir,  that  this  experiment  is  posi- 
tive. "We  put  an  old  queen  in  a  glass  hive  while 
laying  the  eggs  of  males ;  the  bees  received  her  well, 
and  at  that  time  began  to  construct  royal  cells ;  next 
she  laid  in  one  of  them  before  us  ;  and  in  the  last 
place  she  led  forth  the  swarm. 

We  have  repeated  the  same  experiment  several 
times  with  equal  success.  Thus  it  appears  incontest- 
ible,  that  the  old  queen  always  conducts  the  first 
swarm,  but  never  quits  the  hive  before  depositing 
eggs  in  the  royal  cells,  from  which  other  queens  will 
proceed  after  her  departure.  These  cells  are  pre- 
pared by  the  bees  only  while  the  queen  lays  male 
8gg8,  which  is  attended  by  a  remarkable  fact,  namely, 
that  after  this  laying  terminates,  her  belly  being  con- 
siderably diminished,  she  can  easily  fly,  whereas  it 
is  previously  so  heavy  that  she  can  hardly  drag  it 
along.  Therefore,  it  is  necessary  she  should  lay,  in 
order  to  be  in  a  state  for  undertaking  her  journey, 
which  sometimes  may  be  very  long. 

But  this  single  condition  is  not  enough.  It  is  also 
requisite  that  the  bees  be  very  numerous^they  should 
be  even  superabundant,  and  it  may  be  said  that  they 
are  aware  of  it,  for,  if  the  hive  is  thin,  no  royal  cells 
are  constructed  when  the  male  eggs  are  iaid,  which 
is  done  solely  at  the  period  that  the  queen  is  able  to 
conduct  a  colony.  This  fact  was  proved  by  the  fol 
owing  experiment  on  a  large  scale  : 


BUBEB.  05 

On  the  3d  of  May,  1788,  we  divided  each  of  eight- 
een hives,  whose  queens  were  about  a  year  old,  into 
two  portions.  Thus  each  portion  of  the  hives  had 
but  half  the  bees  that  were  originally  there.  Eighteen 
halves  wanted  queens,  but  the  other  eighteen  had 
very  fertile  ones.  They  soon  began  to  lay  the  eggs 
of  males  ;  but  the  bees  being  few,  they  did  not  con- 
struct royal  cells,  and  none  of  the  hives  threw  a 
swarm. 

Therefore,  if  the  hive  containing  the  old  queen  is 
not  very  populous,  she  remains  in  it  until  the  subse- 
quent spring,  and,  if  the  population  is  then  sufficient, 
royal  cells  will  then  be  constructed ;  she  will  begin 
to  lay  male  eggs,  and,  after  depositing  tliem,  will 
issue  forth  at  the  head  of  a  colony,  before  the  young 
queens  are  produced. 


ON  THE  RESPIRATION  OF  BEES. 

The  respiration  of  insects  accumulated  together  in 
a  confined  space,  where  the  air  can  be  renewed  with 
difficulty,  offers  a  new  problem  to  the  naturalist. 
Sucli  is  the  case  with  regard  to  bees.  Their  hive, 
whose  dimensions  does  not  exceed  one  or  two  cubic 
feet,  contains  a  multitude  of  individuals,  all  anima- 
ted, active,  and  laborious.  Its  entrance,  which  is 
constantly  very  restricted,  and  often  obstructed,  by 
crowds  of  bees  departing  and  arriving  during  the 
Heats  of  summer,  is  the  only  opening  admitting  the 


96  BEAUTIE8   OF  THE   BLIND. 

air,  yet  it  suffices  for  their  exigencies.  The  hive,  bo- 
sides  being  internally  plastered  over  with  wax  and 
propolis  by  its  inhabitants  themselves,  and  closed  up 
with  lime  from  without  by  the  cultivator,  has  none 
of  the  conditions  necessary  for  preserving  a  current 
of  natural  air. 

If  a  lighted  taper  be  placed  in  a  vessel  of  equal  ca 
pacity  as  a  hive,  with  an  aperture  larger  in  propor- 
tion than  its  entrance,  the  flame  grows  pale  in  a  few 
n^inutes,  then  burns  bluish,  and  is  extinguished. 
Animals  in  the  same  situation  would  soon  expireyyet 
*»ow  do  the  bees  survive  in  their  dwelling? 

ARTICLE   I.       PKOOF8   OF  KESPLRATION. 

j^periment  1.  Bees  in  the  receiver  of  an  air 
pump  were  not  affected  by  the  first  strokes  of  the 
piston  ;  but  when  the  mercury  sunk  to  a  quarter  of 
an  inch  above  the  level  ol  the  cistern,  they  fell  down 
motionless.     Exposure  to  the  open  air  revived  them. 

2.  I  took  three  empty  flagons,  each  capable  of 
holding  sixteen  ounces  of  water,  and  introduced  two 
hundred  and  fifty  workers  into  the  first,  the  same 
number  into  tlie  second,  and  one  hundred  and  fifty 
males^  into  the  third.  The  first  and  last  were  shut 
close,  the  second  only  restrained  the  escape  of  the 
bees,  that  they  might  serve  for  comparison.  In  a 
a  quarter  of  an  hour  the  workers  in  the  close  vessel 
began  to  testify  signs  of  uneasiness;  their  rings  con 
tracted  and  dilated  with  greater  rapidity ;  they  per* 


BtTBER.  97 

spired  copiously  and  seemed  strongly  affected,  be- 
cause they  licked  the  hnniid  sides  of  their  vessel. 
In  another  qnarrer  of  an  hour  a  cluster,  which  had 
formed  around  a  bit  of  straw,  suddenly  separated,  and 
each  of  the  bees  fell  to  the  bottom  of  the  vessel,  inca- 
pable of  rising.  All  became  asphyxiated  in  three 
quarters  of  an  hour;  nevertheless,  when  removed  and 
exposed  to  the  air,  they  recovered.  The  males  were 
affected  more  fatall}'',  for  none  survived  ;  but  the  bees 
in  the  vessel  admitting  the  air  did  not  suffer.  We 
found  the  air  of  the  otliei-s  greatly  altered" ;  the  oxy- 
gen gas  was  almost  totally  consumed,  and  bees  now 
introduced  into  it  perished. 

3-4.  Experiment  demonstrated,  that  a  new  supply 
of  oxygen  gas  restored  the  asphyxiated  bees.  When 
this  gas  was  pure,  some  of  them  put  among  it  lived 
eight  times  as  long  as  in  common  air,  but  all  were 
suffocated  by  its  convei'sion  into  carbonic  acid  gas. 

AETICLE    in.       RESEARCHES   ON   THE   MODE    OF   RENEWING 
THE   AIR   IN    HIVES. 

Wliile  investigating  all  the  faculties  of  bees  them- 
selves, which  might  affect  renewal  of  the  internal  air, 
we  were  struck  with  the  vibration  of  the  wings.  We 
suspected  that,  having  sufficient  action  to  produce  the 
continual  buzzing  heard  within,  it  might  be  for  the 
purpose  of  displacing  the  air  vitiated  by  respiration. 

During  line  weather,  a  certain  number  of  bees  al- 
ways appear  before  the  entrance  of  the  hive  occupied 
E  T 


98  BEAUTIES  OF  THTB   BLIND. 

in  this  manner,  but  still  more  are  found  to  be  engaged 
in  the  interior.  Tlie  ordinary  place  of  ventilation  is  on 
the  board — those  outside  of  the  entrance  have  their 
heads  turned  in  towards  it ;  those  within  have  them 
turned  in  an  opposite  direction.  "We  may  affirm,  that 
they  arrange  themselves  regularly,  to  ventilate  more 
at  ease.  Thus  they  form  files,  terminating  at  the  en- 
trance of  the  hive,  and  sometimes  disposed  like  so 
many  diverging  rays.  But  this  order  is  not  uniform, 
probably  it  is  owing  to  the  necessity  for  the  ventila- 
ting bees  giving  way  to  those  going  and  coming, 
whose  rapid  coui-se  compels  them  to  range  themselves 
in  a  file,  to  avoid  being  hurt  or  thrown  over  every 
instant.  Sometimes  about  twenty  bees  ventilate  at 
the^bottom  of  a  hive  ;  at  other  times  their  number  is 
more  circumscribed,  and  their  employment  of  various 
duration.  We  have  seen  them-  engaged  in  it  during 
twenty-five  minutes,  only  taking  breath,  as  it  were, 
by  the  shortest  interruption  of  the  vibration.  On 
ceasing,  tliey  are  succeeded  by  others,  so  that  there 
never  is  any  intermission  of  the  buzzing  in  a  populous 
hive. 


EXPERIMENTS  DEMONSTRATING  THE  ORIGIN  OF  WAX 

The  existence  of  the  organs  above  described,  and 
the  scales  seen  under  diflerent  gradations,  induce  U8 
to  believe  them  appropriated  for  the  secretion  of  wax. 
Bnt,  in  common  witn  other  animal  and  vegetable  &e- 


HUBEB.  99 

cretions,  the  means  by  which  tliis  is  accomplished  ap- 
pears to  be  carefully  vailed  by  nature. 

Our  researches  by  simple  observation  thus  being 
obstructed,  we  felt  it  essential  to  adopt  other  methodr 
for  ascertaining  whether  wax  actually  is  a  secretion 
.or  the  collection  of  a  particular  substance. 

Providing  it  were  the  former,  we  had  first  to  ver 
ify  the  opinion  of  Reaumur,  who  conjectured  that  it 
came  from  an  elaboration  of  pollen  in  the  stomach, 
though  we  did  not  coincide  with  him  that  bees  then 
disgorged  it  by  the  mouth.  Neither  were  we  dis- 
posed to  adopt  his  sentiments  regarding  its  origin  ;  for, 
like  Hunter,  it  had  struck  us  that  swarms  newly  set- 
tled in  empty  hives  do  not  bring  home  pollen,  not- 
withstanding they  construct  combs,  while  the  bees  of 
old  hives,  having  no  cells  to  build,  gather  it  abun- 
dantly. We  had,  therefore,  to  learn  whether  bees, 
deprived  of  pollen  for  a  series  of  time,  would  make 
wax,  and  all  that  this  required  was  confinement. 

On  the  24th  May,  we  lodged  a  swarm  which  had 
just  left  the  parent  stock,  in  a  straw  hive,  with  as 
much  honey  and  water  as  necessary  for  the  consump- 
tion of  the  bees,  and  closed  the  entrances  so  as  to  pre- 
vent all  possibility  of  escape,  leaving  access  for  the 
renewal  of  the  air. 

At  fiirst  the  bees  were  greatly  agitated ;  but  we 
succeeded  in  calming  them  by  carrying  the  hive  to  a 
cool,  dark  place,  where  their  captivity  lasted  five 
days.  They  were  then  allowed  to  take  flight  in  an 
apartment,  the  windows  of  which  were  carefully  shut, 


100  BEAUTIES   OF  THE   BLIND. 

and  wliere  the  hive  could  be  examined  conveniently 
The  bees  had  consumed  their  whcle  provision  of 
honey  ;  but  their  dwelling,  which  did  not  contain  an 
atom  of  wax  when  we  established  them  in  it,  had  now 
acquired  five  combs  of  the  most  beautiful  wax,  sus- 
pended from  its  arch,  of  a  pure  white,  and  very  brit* 
tie.  "We  did  not  expect  so  speedy  a  solution  of  the 
problem ;  but  before  concluding  that  the  bees  had 
derived  the  faculty  of  producing  wax  from  the  honey 
on  which  they  fed,  a  second  experiment,  susceptible 
of  no  other  explanation,  was  necessary. 

The  workers,  though  in  captivity,  had  been  able  to 
collect  farina ;  while  they  were  at  Kberty  they  might 
have  obtained  provisions  on  the  eve  or  on  the  day 
itself  of  their  imprisonment,  and  enough  might  have 
been  in  the  stomach,  or  on  the  limbs,  to  enable  them 
to  extract  the  wax  from  it  that  we  had  found  in  the 
hive. 

But  if  it  actually  came  from  the  farina  previously  col- 
lected, this  source  was  not  inexhaustible ;  and  tbe  bees 
being  unable  to  obtain  more,  would  cease  to  construct 
combs,  and  would  fall  into  absolute  inaction.  Before 
proceeding  to  the  second  experiment,  which  was  to 
consist  in  prolonging  their  captivity,  we  took  care  to 
remove  all  the  combs  they  had  formed  in  that  prece- 
ding. Burnens  made  them  return  to  the  hive,  and 
confined  them  again  with  a  new  portion  of  honey. 
The  experiment  was  not  tedious.  From  the  evenino' 
of  the  subsequent  day,  we  observed  them  working  in 
wax  anew ;  and  on  examining  the  hive  on  the  third 


HCBEK.  101 

day,  we  actually  found  five  combs  as  rea^ular  as  those 
they  had  made  during  their  first  imprisonment. 

The  combs  were  removed  five  times  successively, - 
but  always  under  precaution  of  the  escape  of  the  bees 
from  the  apartment  being  prevented,  and  during  this 
long  interval,  the  same  insects  were  preserved  and 
fed  with  honey  exclusively.  Undoubtedly  the  exper- 
iment, had  we  deemed  it  necessary,  might  have  been 
prolonged  with  equal  success. 

On  each  occasion  that  we  supplied  them  with 
honey,  they  produced  new  combs,  which  puts  it  be- 
yond dispute  that  this  substance  affected  the  secretion 
of  wax  in  their  bodies,  without  the  aid  of  pollen.  Aa 
the  reverse  of  the  preceding  experiment  would  prove 
whether  the  pollen  itself  had  the  same  property,  in- 
stead of  supplying  our  bees  with  honey,  we  fed  them 
on  nothing  except  fruit  and  farina.  They  were  kept 
eight  days  in  captivity,  under  a  glass  bell  with  a 
comb,  having  only  farina  in  the  cells  ;  yet  they  nei- 
ther made  wax,  nor  were  scales  seen  under  the  rings. 

Could  any  doubt  exist  as  to  the  real  origin  of  wax? 
We  entertained  none. 


BIOGRAPniCAL  SKETCn  OF  JAMES  IIOLMAN, 

A.   CELEBRATED   BLIND   TRAVELER. 

The  history  and  writings  of  this  wonderful  man 
cannot  fail,  we  think,  to  especially  interest  those  of 
onr  readers  wlio  are  wholly  unacquainted  with  the 
progress  which  the  blind  of  all  ages  have  made  in  the 
intellectual  pursuits,  and  with  the  various  methods 
adopted  by  them  for  the  acquisition  of  knowledge. 
By  those  who  know  but  little  of  the  ardent  wishes 
cherished  by  this  class  of  persons,  to  make  themselves 
active  and  useful  members  of  society,  the  first  in- 
quiry will  very  naturally  be — What  pleasure  will  one 
derive  from  traveling  who  cannot  look  out  upon  this 
beautiful  world,  with  all  its  gay  and  varied  scenery  ; 
its  green  earth  ;  its  starry  skies  ;  its  gay  flowers,  with 
their  endless  variety  of  sweet  faces  waving  in  the 
clear  sunlight;  the  sloping  lawns  and  rich  meadows; 
the  mountains,  the  woods,  and,  in  short,  all  that  is 
truly  grand  and  beautiful  in  nature?  This  inquiry 
deserves  a  kind  consideration  ;  and  we  cannot  better 
meet  it  than  by  copying  Mr.  Holman's  own  answer 
to  like  interrogations : 

*'  I  am  constantly  asked,  and  I  may  as  well  answer 


.fAMES   HOLMAN.  103 

the  qnestioii  here  once  for  all,  what  is  the  use  of  trav- 
eling to  one  who  cannot  see  ?  I  answer,  Does  every 
traveler  see  all  he  describes  ?  and  is  not  every  trav- 
eler obliged  to  depend  upon  others  for  a  great  portion 
of  the  information  he  collects  ?  Even  Humboldt 
himself  was  not  exempt  from  this  necessity.  The 
picturesque  in  nature,  it  is  true,  is  shut  out  from  me, 
and  works  of  art  are  to  me  mere  outlines  of  beauty, 
accessible  only  to  one  sense  ;  bi  t  perhaps  this  very 
circumstance  affords  a  stronger  zest  to  curiosity, 
which  is  thus  impelled  to  a  more  close  and  searching 
examination  of  detail,  than  would  be  considered  ne- 
cessary to  a  traveler  wlio*  might  satisfy  himself  by  the 
superficial  view,  and  rest  content  with  the  first  im- 
pressions conveyed  through  the  eye.  Deprived  of 
that  organ  of  information,  I  am  compelled  to  adopt 
a  more  rigid  and  less  suspicious  course  of  inquiry, 
and  to  investigate  analytically,  by  a  train  of  patient 
examination,  suggestions  and  deductions,  which  other 
travelers  dismiss  at  first  sight ;  so  that,  freed  from  the 
liazard  of  being  misled  by  appearances,  I  am  the  less 
likely  to  adopt  hasty  and  erroneous  conclusions.  I 
believe  that,  notwithstanding  my  want  of  vision,  I 
do  not  fail  to  visit  as  many  interesting  points,  in  the 
course  of  my  travels  as  the  majority  of  my  contem 
poraries  ;  and  by  having  things  described  to  me  on 
the  spot,  I  think  it  is  possible  for  me  to  form  as  cor 
rect  a  judgment  as  my  own  sight  would  enable  me 
to  do ;  and  to  confirm  my  accuracy,  I  could  bring 
many  living  witnesses  to  bear  testimony  to  my  end 


104  BEAUTIES   OF   THE   BLEtTD. 

less  inquiries  and  insatiable  thirst  for  collecting  in- 
Tormation. 

"  Indeed,  this  is  the  secret  of  the  delight  I  derive 
from  traveling,  affording  me,  as  it  does,  a  constant 
source  of  mental  occupation,  and  stimulating  me  so 
powerfully  to  physical  exertion,  that  I  can  bear  a 
greater  degree  of  bodily  fatigue  than  any  one  could 
suppose  my  frame  to  be  capable  of  supporting.  1 
am  frequently  askec  how  I  take  my  notes.  It  is  sim 
ply  thus :  I  keep  a  sort  of  rough  diary,  which  I  fill 
up  from  time  to  time  as  opportunities  offer,  but  not 
from  day  to  day,  for  I  am  frequently  many  days  in 
arrear,  sometimes,  indeed,  a*  fortnight  together  ;  but 
I  always  vividly  remember  the  daily  occurrences 
which  I  wish  to  retain,  so  that  it  is  not  possible  that 
any  circumstances  can  escape  my  attention.  I  also 
collect  distinct  notes  on  various  subjects,  as  well  as 
particular  descriptions  of  interesting  objects,  and 
when  I  cannot  meet  with  a  friend  to  act  as  my  aman- 
uensis, I  have  still  a  resource  in  ray  own  writing-ap- 
paratus, of  which,  however,  I  but  seldom  avail  my- 
self, as  the  process  is  much  more  tedious  to  me  than 
that  of  dictation.  But  these  are  merely  rough  notea 
of  the  heads  of  subjects,  which  I  reserve  to  expatiate 
upon  at  leisure,  on  my  return  to  old  England." 

It  is  thought  by  many  that  the  lack  of  sight  al- 
ways presupposes  both  mental  and  physical  debility, 
dull  perceptions,  feeble  imagination,  and,  as  a  natu- 
ral sequence,  sluggish  energies,  a  tasteless  and  mel- 
ancholy existence.     But  these  false  conclusions  have 


JAMBS    HOLMAN.  105 

been  drawn  from  instances  of  restlessness  and  inacr 
tivity  among  the  blind,  which  were  not  the  result  of 
their  peculiar  situation,  and  should  not  be  attributed 
to  their  blindness. 

It  was  evidently  not  a  roving  disposition,  which 
some  have  thought  a  characteristic  of  the  blind,  that 
prompted  our  worthy  author  to  go  abroad,  but  rather 
a  wish  to  place  himself  among  eminent  travelers,  and 
to  increase  his  sphere  of  usefulness,  by  presenting  to 
the  world  facts  that  always  escape  the  more  superii 
cial  observer.  "  I  have  been  conscious,"  says  he, 
"  from  my  earliest  youth,  of  the  existence  of  this  de- 
sire to  explore  distant  regions,  to  trace  the  varieties 
exhibited  by  mankind  under  the  different  iuflu 
ences  of  difierent  climates,  customs,  and  laws,  and  to 
investigate,  with  unwearied  solicitude,  the  moral  and 
physical  distinctions  that  separate  and  diversify  the 
various  nations  of  the  earth.  I  am  bound  to  believe 
that  this  direction  of  my  faculties  and  energies  has' 
been  ordained  by  a  wise  and  benevolent  Providence, 
as  a  source  of  consolation  under  an  affliction  which 
closes  upon  me  all  the  delights  and  charms  of  the 
visible  world." 

Mr.  James  Holman,  R.  N.,  (a  sketch  of  whose  fife 
we  have  the  honor  of  publishing  for  the  fii-st  time  in 
this  country,  together  with  some  extracts  from  his 
writings,)  was  born  at  Exeter,  in  the  year  1786.  He 
lost  his  sight  at  the  age  of  twenty-five  years,  while 
on  service  on  the  coast  of  Africa,  as  a  lieutenant  in 
the  royal  navv.     In  1820,  strange  as  it  may  appear, 


106  .  BEAUTIES   OF  THE   BLIND. 

he  traveled  tlirongh  France  and  Italy,  and,  in  1822, 
favored  the  public  with  an  account  of  his  interesting 
travels,  which  work  was  favorably  received.  In  the 
same  year,  he  undertook  an  arduous  journey  through 
Russia,  Siberia,  Poland,  Austria,  Saxony,  Prussia, 
and  Hanover.  These  travels  he  published  in  1825, 
in  two  vols.  8vo.  The  object  which  Mr,  Holman  had 
in  making  this  tour  is  developed  by  himself  in  the 
following  words  :  "  On  the  19th  of  July,  1822, 1  em- 
barked in  the  Saunders  Hill  schooner,  commanded  by 
Captain  Courtney,  then  lying  in  the  London  docks, 
and  bound  for  St.  Petersburgh,  with  the  ostensible 
motive  of  visiting  the  Russian  empire  ;  but  my  real 
intention,  should  circumstances  prove  propitious,  was 
to  make  a  circuit  of  the  whole  world."  He  was,  how- 
ever, unfortunately  prevented  from  carrying  his  plana 
into  execution,  for  after  having  traveled  thousands  of 
miles,  and  spending  some  months  in  the  midst  of  Si- 
'beria,  he  was  apprehended  as  a  spy,  and  was  con 
ducted  from  thence,  a  state-prisoner,  to  the  frontiers  of 
Austria.  In  Russia,  Mr.  Holman  was  called  the 
"  blind  spy,"  an  appellation  wholly  unworthy  of  our 
hero,  and  still  more  ludicrous  in  view  of  his  peculiar 
situation.  He  gives  a  most  interesting  account  of  the 
manners  and  customs  of  the  Russians,  their  buildings, 
sliipping,  commerce,  &c. 

Being  obliged  to  leave  Moscow,  his  mind  was  se- 
riously occupied  with  various  reflections.  "  My  situ- 
ation," says  he,  "  was  now  one  of  extreme  novelty, 
and  my  feelings  corresponded  with  its  peculiarity.     / 


JAMES   HOLMAN.  107 

was  engaged,  imder  circumstances  of  unusual  occur- 
rence, in  .a  solitary  journey  of  a  thousand  miles, 
through  a  country,  perhaps  the  wildest  on  the  face 
of  the  earth,  and  whose  inhabitants  were  scarcely  yet 
accounted  within  the  pale  of  civilization,  with  no  other 
attendant,  than  a  rude  Tartar  postillion,  to  whose  lan- 
guage my  ear  was  wholly  unaccustomed  ;  and  yet,  I 
was  supported  by  a  feeling  of  happy  confidence,  with 
a  calm  resignation  to  all  the  inconveniences  and  risks 
of  ray  arduous  undertaking  ;  nay,  I  even  derived  a 
real  inward  gratification  in  the  prospect  of  retirement 
from  the  eternal  round  of  pleasure  and  social  enjoy- 
ments, in  which  I  had  been  participating,  to  a  -degree 
of  satiety  that  began  to  be  oppressive.  Again  and 
again  I  interested  myself,  by  contrasting  voluntary 
exile  with  the  constrained  banishment  of  the  numer- 
ous unfortunate  wretches  who  have  been  known  to 
languish  away  in  the  inhospitable  wilds  I  was.  about 
to  traverse,  the  remnant  of  a  protracted  existence, 
aggravated  by  an  eternal  separation  from  ^11  the  bless- 
ings that  tliey  have  deemed  most  dear  to  them  in 
life." 

After  an  absence  of  two  years  and  one  day  from 
his  native  country,  our  author  ultimately  landed  at 
Hull,  on  the  24th  of  June,  1824. 

"  Sweet  is  the  hour  that  brings  us  home. 

Where  all  will  spring  to  meet  us ; 
Where  hands  are  striving,  as  we  come, 

To  be  the  first  to  greet  us. 
When  the  world  has  spent  its  frowns  and  w^rsth,    ' 

An  ^  -jare  been  sorely  pressing. 


108  BKAUTIl-S    OF  THE   BLIND 

'Tis  sweet  to  turn  from  our  roving  path. 

And  find  a  fireside  blessing. 
Ah,  joj-fully  dear  is  tlie  homeward  track. 

If  we  are  but  sure  of  a  welcome  back  I " 

No  one,  we  think,  can  fail  to  discover  in  Mr.  Hcl- 
nian  the  elements  of  a  noble  and  active  mind,  a  force 
of  character,  and  strength  of  purpose  that  would 
have  done  honor  to  a  Csesar.  Yet  some  may  urge 
(while  at  the  same  time  they  laud  his  perseverance,) 
that,  had  our  author  lost  his  sight  in  infancy,  his  pas- 
sion for  traveling  would  never  have  developed  itself. 
Such  an  inference  would  scarcely  be  just,  for  now 
that  Locke's  philosophy  is  exploded,  no  one  dare 
deny  the  existence  of  ruling  desires,  in  germ,  even  at 
birth.  It  will  be  seen  that  the  loss  of  our  highest  ex- 
ternal sense,  (viz,  sight,)  does  not  necessitate  any  fac- 
ulty of  the  mind  to  remain  dormant,  when  we  take 
into  consideration  the  superior  culture  wliich  the  re- 
maining senses  receive,  and  more  especially  if  t?.e 
physical  organism  be  strong  and  vigorous.  True, 
happy  circumstances  aid  greatly  in  nourishing  genius, 
and  exercise  alone  gives  health  and  vigor  to  the 
mental,  as  well  as  to  the  physical  constitution.  The 
eye  may  embrace,  at  one  glance,  (though  supei-ficial- 
ly,)  what  would  occupy  weeks  to  examine  by  the  sense 
of  touch  ;  yet  we  do  not  know  that  this  is  so  great 
an  advantage,  nor  do  we  believe  that  the  loss  of  sight 
precludes  the  possibility  of  scientific  investigation, 
deep  and  profound  thought,  and  even  a  high  appre- 
ciation of  the  beai-*iful.     Nor  does  external  blindness 


JAMES   HOLM  AN.  109 

shut  out  from  inner  vision  the  glad  face  of  Nature. 
Objects  which  inspire  the  seeing  with  emotions  of 
grandeur  and  sublimity,  excite  in  us  the  same  feel- 
ings, and  frequently  more  intense. 

We  may,  at  some  future  time,  favor  the  reading 
public  in  this  country,  with  'Mr.  Holman's  entire 
work  ;  but  at  present,  we  shall  be  obliged  to  make  a 
few  brief  extracts  suffice. 

Mr.  Holman,  in  commenting  upon  the  characters 
and  customs  of  the  French  inhabitants  of  Fernando 
Po,  says,  "  I  shall  indulge  my  own  particular  feelings 
and  partialities  in  entering  upon  that  part  of  my  ob- 
servations which  relates  more  exclusively  to  tlie  fairer 
and  softer  portion  of  this  aboriginal  people.  The  in- 
finite modifications  of  pereon,  mind,  and  manners, 
exhibited  by  the  sex  in  the  difl^erent  grades  of  society 
throughout  the  world,  whether  formed  by  the  influ- 
ences of  climate,  government  or  education,  presents 
a  most  interesting  subject  to  the  speculative  observer 
of  human  nature  ;  and  to  one  who,  from  early  life, 
both  by  profession  and  inclination  a  traveler,  has 
wandered  under  every  temperature  of  our  eastern 
hemisphere,  who  has  studied  and  admired  the  sex 
under  every  variety  of  character,  no  wonder  that 
the  contemplation  of  woman,  as  nature  left  her,  inar-o 
tificial,  unsophisticated,  simple,  barbarous,  and  una- 
dorned, should  seem  fraught  with  peculiar  interest. 
Are  there  any  who  imagine  that  my  loss  of  eye-sight 
must  necessarily  deny  me  the  enjoyments  of  such  con- 
templations ?     How  much  more  do  I  pity  the  mental 


110  BEAUTIES  OF  THE  BLIND. 

darkness  which  could  give  rise  to  sucli  an  error,  than 
they  can  pity  my  personal  calamity  !  The  feelings 
and  sympathies  which  pervade  m}'^  heart,  when  in  the 
presence  of  an  amiable  and  interesting  female,  are 
such  as  never  could  be  suggested  by  mewing  a  mere, 
surface  of  colored  clay,  however  shaped  into  beauty, 
or  however  animated  by  feeling  and  expression.  The 
intelligence  still  allowed  me  by  a  beneficent  Provi- 
dence, is  amply  sufficient  to  apprise  me  of  the  exist- 
ence of  the  more  real — the  diviner  beauties  of  the 
8oul ;  and  herein  are  enjoyments  in  which  I  am  proud 
to  indulge.  A  soft  and  sweet  voice,  for  instance, 
affords  me  a  two-fold  gratification  ; — it  is  a  vehicle 
of  delight,  as  operating  on  the  appropriate  nerves, 
and,  at  the  same  time,  it  suggests  ideas  of  visible 
beauty,  which,  I  admit,  may,  by  force  of  imagina- 
tion, be  carried  beyond  reality*  But,  supposing  1 
am  deceived,  are  my  feelings  the  less  intense  ? — and, 
in  wjiat  consists  my  existence,  but  in  those  feelings  ? 

•What  Mr.  Holman  avers  to  be  true  of  liimself,  in  relation  to 
ideas  of  visible  beauty,  suggested  by  pleasaut  voices,  the  present 
writers  of  this  volume  most  cheerfully  endorse.  It  is  corroborated 
by  the  experience  of  almost  every  blind  person  with  whom  we  are 
acquainted,  and  those  are  not  a  few.  As  nature  speaks  of  tranquil- 
lity in  the  low  whisper  of  the  winds,  or  of  miglit  and  contention  in 
the  roar  of  the  ocean,  so  the  soul  has  a  voice,  blended  with  the  nat- 
ural utterance  of  speech,  or  the  sound  of  the  human  voice.  To  us, 
the  voice  as  clearly  indicates  moral  worth,  intelligence,  and  personal 
beauty,  as  does  the  expression  of  countenance  to  the  seeing.  The 
voice  is  as  truly  an  index  of  the  mind,  as  the  face ;  nor  can  the 
mind  be  highly  cultivated,  without  perceptibly  changing  the  tone 
of  voice. 


JAME8   HOLM  AN.  Ill 

Is  it  otherwise  with  those  who  see  ?  If  it  be,  I  envy 
them  not.  But  are  those  wlio  tliink  themselves  hap- 
pier, in  this  respect,  than  I  am,  sure  tliat  the  posses- 
sion of  a  more  exquisite  sense  than  any  tliey  enjoy, 
does  not,  sometimes  at  least,  compensate  the  curtail- 
ments to  which  the  ordinary  senses,  and  particularly 
the  one  of  eye-sight,  is  liable  ?  and  if  they  should 
think  so,  let  them  not,  at  least,  deny  me  the  resources 
[  possess.  I  shall  not,  however,  persist  further  in  a 
description  of  that  situation,  those  circumstances  and 
those  consolations,  which  the  all-feeling  comprehen- 
sion of  the  poet  hath  so  justly  caught  in  one  of  its 
diviner  moods  of  inspiration  : 

'And  yet  he  neither  drooped  nor  pined. 

Nor  liad  a  melancholy  mind  ; 

For  God  took  pity  on  the  boy. 

And  was  his  friend,  and  gave  him  joy, 

Of  which  we  nothing  know.' 

"  The  personal  appearance  of  the  females  of  Fernau 
do  Po,  is  by  no  means  attractive,  unless  (degustibus 
non  est  dis  pretandum)  a  very  ordinary  face,  with 
Tiuch  of  the  contour  of  the  baboon  be  deemed  so. 

"Add  to  this  the  ornaments  of  scarification  and  tat- 
tooing, adopted  by  the  sex  to  a  greater  extent  than 
by  the  men,  and  the  imagination,  will  at  once  be  sen 
sible  how  much  divinity  attaches  to  Fernandian 
beauty.  Like  the  men,  the  women  plaster  the  body 
all  over  with  clay  and  palm-oil,  and  also,  in  a  similar 
manner,  wear  the  hair  long,  and  in  curls  or  ringlets, 
well  stiffened  with  the  above  composition.     The  chil- 


112  BEAUTIES    OF   THB   BLIND 

(Iren  of  both  sexes,  or  those  who  have  not  attained 
the  age  of  puberty,  have  the  hair  cut  short,  and  are 
not  permitted  to  use  any  artificial  covering  to  the 
body.  One  trait  is,  perhaps,  peculiar  to  the  women 
of  this  country,  and  may  be  regarded  by  some  as  an 
indication  of  their  good  sense — that  they  have  no 
taste  for  baubles,  or,  at  all  events,  do  not  appear  to 
desire  them  more  than  the  men.  With  respect  to 
articles  of  clothing,  they  are  equally  exempt  from 
such  incumbrances  as  the  other  sex. 

Happy  the  climate  where  the  beau 
Wears  the  sanie  suit  for  use  and  show, 
And  at  a  small  expense,  your  wife, 
If  once  well  pink'd,  is  clothed  for  life. 

"  Their  lords  and  masters  contrive  to  keep  them  in 
great  subjection,  and  accustom  them  to  carry  their 
burdens;,  they  evince  also  a  considerable  degree  of 
jealousy,  and  show  evident  marks  of  displeasure, 
whenever  strangei's  pay  attentions  to  them.  As, 
however,  this  is  equally  the  case  whether  the  lady 
be  young  or  old,  it  is  not  improbable  that  it  may, 
in  some  measure,  arise  from  their  considering  it  too 
great  a  condescension  on  their  parts,  to  notice  per- 
sons whom  they  d^em  so  inferior." 

Mr.  Holman's  view  from  Adam's  Peak,  in  Ceylon, 
will  give  the  reader  a  faint  idea  of  the  pleasure  he 
derived  from  traveling,  and  tiie  exquisite  delight,  with 
which  his  inner  vision  drank  in  scenes  of  beautv. 
"We  reached    the  summit," says   he,  "just  before 


JAM£S   BOLMAN.  113 

the  Min  began  to  break,  and  a  splendid  scene  opened 
.ipon  us.  The  insuhxted  mountain,  rising  up  into  a 
peak  of  7,420  feet  above  the  level  of  the  sea,  flanked 
on  one  sicje  by  lofty  ranges,  and  on  the  other  by  a 
champagne  country,  stretching  to  the  shore,  that 
formed  the  margin  of  one  immense  expanse  of  ocean. 
I  could  not  see  this  glorious  sight  with  the  visual 
orbs,  but  I  turned  toward  it  witli  indescribable  en- 
thusiasm. I  stood  upon  the  summit  of  the  Peak,  and 
felt  all  its  beauties  rushing  into  my  heart  of  hearts." 
It  is  to  be  regretted  that  Mr.  Holman  did  not  give 
to  the  world,  more  of  his  own  observations  and  re- 
flections. As  a  writer,  he  might  have  been  useful  to 
the  world  in  a  two-fold  sense.  '  Having  possessed 
perfect  sight  during  the  early  part  of  his  life,  his 
vivid  recollections  of  light  and  shade,  nature's  smiles 
and  frowns,  and  the  various  combinations  of  color, 
enabled  him  to  draw,  with  an  imaginative  pencil, 
every  scene  that  could  be  described  to  him.  The 
knowledge  which  he  gained  of  new  and  interesting 
objects,  by  adroitly  managing  the  eyes  of  others,  was 
as  correct,  no  doubt,  as  though  they  had  been  painted 
upon  his  own  mind.  He,  therefore,  found  no  diffi- 
culty in  describing  all  that  other  travelers  describe, 
or  in  ffatherinor  as  much  useful  information  as  othei 
travelers  collect.  To  him,  phases  of  the  human 
character  were  presented,  which  are  commonly  hid- 
den from  the  seeing.  We  allude  to  those  higher  feel- 
ings of  wild  and  savage  nature,  that  only  the  mis- 
fortunes of  others  can  sometimes  bring  out.     Wild, 


114  BEAUTIES    OF    THE    BLIND. 

sweet  flowers  are  sometimes  found  among  brambles, 
and  the  crudest  nature  has  in  it  something  refined. 
Most  blind  persons  find  the  study  of  character  a 
source  of  unbounded  satisfaction.  Our  author's  pe- 
culiar situation,  and  comparative  helplessness,  might 
have  opened  up  to  him,  among  the  numerous  tribes 
he  visited,  an  endless  field  of  useful  labor.  •  "We  are, 
however,  not  disposed  to  find  much  fault  with  the 
course  Mr.  Ilolman  pursued.  His  writings  have 
amused  and  interested  the  public,  and  have  gained 
tor  their  author  a  high  character  in  the  literary  world. 


LIFE  OF  JAMES  WILSON,  THE  BLIND  BIOGRAPHER. 

"  I  go,  I  go  I     And  must  mine  image  fade 

From  tbe  green  spots  wherein  my  cLildhood  plaj'ed 

By  my  own  streams  ? 
Must  mj-  life  part  fi'om  each  familiar  place, 
As  a  bird's  song  that  leaves  the  woods  no  trace 

Of  its  lone  themes  ?  " 

James  "Wilson  was  bora  May  24:th,  1779,  in  Rich- 
iiioud,  Virginia.  His  father,  John  Wilson,  was  a 
native  of  Scotland,  who  emigrated  to  this  country 
when  eighteen  years  of  age,  to  manage  the  estate  of 
his  uncle,  which  he  afterward  inherited.  After  the 
death  of  his  uncle,  he  married  Elizabeth  Johnson,  of 
Baltimore.  But,  unfortunately  for  him,  at  the  com- 
mencement of  the  revolutionary  war,  he  found  his 
predilections  for  monarchy  too  strong  to  relish  the 
doctrines  of  liberty  or  death,  and  joined  the  royai 
cause.  In  consequence  of  this,  a  band  of  enraged  in- 
cendiaries attacked  and  burned  his  dwelling,  and  laid 
waste  his  plantation.  He  served  during  five  cam- 
paigns, in  a  detachment  under  the  command  of  Lord 
Cornwallis,  and  was  taken  prisoner  at  Yorktown, 
where  General  Washington  gave  the  finishing  stroke 
to  the  war. 

On  being  released,  he  found  his  health  much  im- 
paired, and  being  perhaps  much  grieved  to  see  tlie 


\IQ  BEAUTIES    OF   THE    BLIND. 

Star  spangled  banner,  which  he  strove  so  hard  to 
humble  in  the  dust,  now  wave  in  proud  triumph  over 
the  Colonies,  he  decided  to  take  his  family  .and  re 
turu  to  England.  Bound  for  Liverpool,  the  vessel  set 
sail  under  the  guiaance  of  Captain  Smith.  But  they 
had  scarcely  lost  sight  of  land,  when  Mr.  Wilson  was 
attacked  \with  severe  illness,  and  twenty  days  aftei 
the  sliip  had  left  New  York  harbor,  he  died. 

Mrs.  Wilson,  being  at  this  time  in  delicate  health, 
was  so  shocked  by  this  sad  event,  that  she  expired  in 
twenty  minutes  after.  They  were  both  wrapped  in 
one  hammock,  and  committed  to  a  watery  grave  ! 
And  James  Wilson,  their  only  surviving  offspring,  at 
the  tender  age  of  four  years,  was  left  a  poor,  friend- 
less, fortuneless  orphan.  Nor  was  this  the  end  of  his 
misfortune  ;  seized  by  the  small  pox,  and  for  want  of 
a  mother's  care  and  proper  medical  aid,  this  most 
loathsome  disease  deprived  him  of  his  sight.  After 
a  long  and  tedious  voyage,  the  captain  was  compelled 
to  put  into  Belfast  harbor  for  repairs.  Young  Wil- 
son, having  not  yet  recovered  from  his  illness,  was 
immediately  sent  to  the  city  and  placed  in  charge  of 
the  church  warden  ;  and  to  prevent  him  from  becom- 
ing a  charge  to  the  parish,  the  benevolent  Captain 
Smith  put  in  the  warden's  hands  a  sum  of  money  suf- 
ficient to  defray  his  expenses  for  live  years. 

When  about  seven  years  of  age,  his  right  eye  was 
couched  by  Surgeon  Wilson,  and  restored  to  partial 
night.  But  shortly  after,  on  crossing  the  street 
one  day,  he   was  attacked   and   badly  bruised   by 


JAMK8    WILSON.  117 

an  ill-natured  cow,  which  nearly  cost  him  his  life, 
and  deprived  him  of  the  sight  he  had  recovered. 
He  early  manifested  great  mental  as  well  as  physical 
activity,  and  was  held  in  high  esteem  by  his  youthful 
associates,  for  daring  exploits  and  inventive  genius. 
So  perfect  a  knowledge  did  he  acquire  of  every  street, 
nook,  and  principal  building  in  Belfast,  th-at  he  was 
not  unfrequently  a  guide  to  strangers,  with  perfect 
sight,  who  groped  about  in  midnight  darkness,  unable 
again  to  liud  their  lodgings. 

His  first  effort  for  self-maintenance,  when  about 
twelve  years  of  age,  was  in  carrying  letters  to  and 
from  the  different  offices  of  merchants  and  profes- 
sional gentlemen,  and  was  afterward  employed  by 
Mr.  Gordon,  editor  of  the  Belfast  News  Letter,  to 
deliver  the  papers  to  subscribers  on  the  days  of  pub- 
lication. While  in  this  employment,  he  was  often 
compelled  to  call  at  the  residences  of  gentlemen  four 
or  five  miles  out  of  the  city.  But  having  a  perfect 
knowledge  of  the  surrounding  country,  he  was  ena- 
bled to  execute  his  business  with  correctness  and  dis- 
patch. His  indigent  circumstances  and  friendless  con- 
dition, rendered  his  opportunities  for  acquiring  knowl- 
edge exceedingly  limited.  But  his  native  genius 
soon  suggested  plans  to  overcome  these  embarrass- 
ments, which  his  indomitable  perseverance  at  length 
carried  into  full  effect. 

It  seems  to  be  indispensably  necessary,  that  a  rawu 
destined  to  be  truly  great  should  be  first  disciplined 
ii    the  school  of  rigid  self-denial,  and  its   progress 


118  ■     BEAUTIES   OF   THE   BLIND 

hedged  up  with  the  most  formidable  obstacles.  Fo! 
proof  of  this,  we  have  but  to  turn  over  tlie  annals  of 
ancient  and  modern  record,  where  we  find  mention 
of  but  few  personages  whose  deeds  brighten  the  pa- 
ges of  man's  history,  or  who  have  been  considered  il- 
lustrious benefactors  of  their  race,  that  have  not  risen 
from  humble  and  embarrassing  situations  in  life. 
The  path  leading  to  true  intellectual  greatness  is 
fraught  with  such  incessant  toil,  that  there  are  few 
surrounded  with  wealth  and  affluence,  who  do  not 
prefer  'their  ease  to  walking  therein.  Hence  the  de- 
velopment of  science  and  the  fine  arts,  in  every  age 
has  been  left  to  men  of  low  estate,  and  often  thos« 
seeming  to  labor  under  the  greatest  disadvantages. 

A  vigorous  and  aspiring  intellect  cannot  be  sup 
pressed  by  mere  physical  circumstances;  but  like  old 
Ocean's'  tide,  it  gathers  strength  from  impediments, 
pressing  forward  with  irresistible  force,  and  scales  in 
triumph  the  loftiest  summits  of  opposition.  To  the 
truth  of  this  remark,  the  trials  and  triumphs  of  Mr. 
Wilson  during  his  long  and  eventful  life  bear  testi- 
mony. When  we  behold  him  a  poor,  sightless,  and 
friendless  boy,  groping  his  way  through  the  populous 
city  of  Belfast,  delivering  letters  and  papers  from 
door  to  door,  while  the  winter  storms  howled  dis- 
mally through  the  narrow  alleys,  and  the  sleety  rains 
fell  upon  his  thin-clad  form,  a  feeling  of  surprise  un- 
consciously steals  over  us,  that  his  young  and  tender 
heart  did  not  give  way  under  the  mountain  of  afliic- 
tion  that  seemed  to  rest  upon  it.     But  He,  without 


JAMES    WILSON.  119 

whose  notice  not  a  sparrow  falls  to  the  ground,  "  who 
feedeth  the  young  ravens  when  they  cry,"  has  also 
made  the  never-failing  promise  to  be  a  Father  to  the 
fatherless. 

When  .Wilson  was  about  fifteen  years  of  age,  being 
destitute  of  the -means  requisite  for  his  attending 
school,  he  appropriated  a  part  of  his  scanty  earnings 
each  week  for  educational  purposes.  With  this  he 
purchased  such  publications  as  are  usually  attractive 
to  boys  of  that  age,  and  employed  his  young  asso- 
ciates to  read  to  him  during  their  leisure  hours.  A 
few  years  subsequent  to  this  time,  desiring  a  more  lu- 
crative employment,  he  chose  that  of  an  itinerant 
dealer ;  but  he  found  this  occupation  ill  adapted  to 
his  circumstances. 

■  "  The  want  of  sight,"  says  he  in  his  memoir,  "  made 
it  difficult  for  me  to  steer  my  course  aright,  and  I 
was  often  exposed  both  to  hardships  and  danger. 
Many  a  time  have  I  heard  the  thunder  roll  over  my 
head,  and  felt  the  teeming  rain  drench  me  from  head 
to  foot,  while  I  have  unknowingly  passed  by  a  place 
of  shelter,  or  stood  like  a  statue,  not  knowing  which 
way  to  turn,  though  within  a  few  paces  of  a  house. 
Still,  however,  while  reflecting  on  all  these  circum- 
stances, and  on  the  sympathy  which  I  was  sure  to 
meet  with  after  my  sufferings,  I  have  been  often  led 
to  conclude  that  the  balance  was  in  my  favor,  when 
compared  with  many  who  enjoyed  the  use  of  every 
sense.    There  is  no  rose  without  its  thorn,  neither  is 

here  any  state  without  its  comforts." 


120  BEAUT1K8  OF  THE  BLIND. 

During  his  peregrinations  through  the  country,  hp. 
was  frequently  exposed  to  the  most  imminent  dangers, 
from  which  he  sometimes  narrowly  escaped  with  his 
life ;  for  example,  we  give  the  following  as  related 
by  himself.     "  From  Ballymena  I  was  one  -day  going 
out  to  the  Rev.  Robert  Stewart's.    *At  the  end  of  the 
town  the  road  divides ;  one  branch  leads  to  Bally- 
mena, and  the  other  to  Broughshane.     lii  the  forks 
an  old  well  was  opened  for  the  purpose  of  sinking  a 
pump.     It  being  two  o'clock  in  the  day,  the  workmen 
were  all  at  diimer,  and  I  was  groping  about  with  my 
staff  to  ascertain  the  turn  in  the  road,  when  a  man  • 
called  out  to  me  to  stand  still  and  not  move  a  single 
step.     I  did  80,  when  he  came  forward  and  told  me, 
that  two  steps  more  would  have  hurried  me  into  a  well 
eighty  feet  deep,  and  half  full  of  water.     He  held  me 
by  the  drm,  and  made  me  put  forth  my  staff  to  feel 
and  be  convinced  of  my  danger,  when  I  found  that  I 
was  actually  not  more  than  one  yard  from  the  edge  I 
The  blood  ran  cold  in  my  veins  ;  I  wjis  scarcely  able 
to  stand  erect, 

'And  every  limb,  unstrung  with  terror,  shook.'" 

•  In  the  year  1800,  a  temporary  Institution  was^ 
established  at  Belfast,  for  the  instruction  of  those  des- 
titute of  sight,  in  such  mechanical  pursuits  as  were 
best  adapted  to  their  peculiar  situation.  Of  this, 
James  Wilson  became  an  inmate,  and  soon  acquired 
a  knowledge  of  the  upholstery  business  ;  a  trade,  by 
*he  pursuit  of  which,  under  the  patronage  of  his 


JAMES    WILSON.  121 

fi'ieiids,  he  rendered  his  circumstances  more  easy. 
In  1803,  a  number  of  young  men  formed  a  reading 
society  in  Belfast,  and,  although  they  were  all  me- 
chanics, some  of  them  were  also  men  of  taste,  and 
possessed  considerable  talent.  Into  this  association 
Wilson  was  admitted  a  member,  which  was  the  dawn 
iiig  of  a  brighter  day  in  his  literary  pursuits.  One 
of  its  membei-s,  to  whom  he  was  warmly  attached, 
kindly  offered  to  read  to  him  such  books  as  he  could 
procure.  Their  stated  time  for  this  employment  was 
from  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening  until  one  in  the 
morning,  in  the  winter  season,  and  from  seven  until 
eleven  in  the  summer.  In  this  way  he  committed  to 
memory  a  vast  collection  of  pieces,  both  in  prose  and 
verse.  "  So  ardent,"  says  he,  "  was  my  desire  for 
knowledge  at  that  time,  that  I  could  never  bear  to 
be  absent  a  single  night  from  my  friend  ;  and  often, 
when  walking  in  the  country,  where  I  could  have 
been  comfortably  accommodated,  I  have  traveled 
three  or  four  miles,  in  a  severe  winter  night,  to  be  at 
my  post  in  time.  Pinched  with  cold  and  drenched 
with  rain,  I  have  many  a  time  sat  down  and  listened 
for  several  hours  together,  to  the  writings  of  Plutarch, 
Rollin,  or  Clarendon."  This  course  of  reading  he 
continued  for  seven  or  eight  years,  during  which  time 
he  was  made  acquainted  with  almost  every  work  in 
the  English  language. 

Aided  by  a  retentive  power  cultivated  to  a  surpri- 
sing degree,  it  may  well  be  supposed  that  Mr.  "Wil- 
son had  by  this  time  accumulated  a  large  store  of  use- 


138  BEAUTIES   OF   THE   BLIND. 

ful  knowledge.  So  tenacious  was  his  memory,  that, 
during  the  French  revolution,  being  somewhat  inter- 
ested in  politics,  he  served  as  an  army  and  navy  list 
to  the  illiterate  who  had  relations  in  either  of  these 
departments.  To  illustrate  how  fully,  we  give  the 
following  anecdote  as  related  by  himself :  "Being 
invited  by  a  friend  to  spend  an  evening  at  his  house, 
I  had  scarcely  sat  down  when  three  gentlemen  en- 
tered, and  the  conversation  turning  on  the  news  of 
the  day,  I  was  requested  by  my  friend  to  repeat  the 
names  of  as  many  of  the  ships  of  the  British  navy  as 
1  could  recollect,  telling  me,  at  the  same  time,  that 
he  had  a  particular  reason  for  making  the  request.  1 
commenced,  and  my  friend  marked  them  down  as  I 
went  along,  until  I  had  repeated  six  hundred  and 
twenty,  when  he  stopped  me,  saying  I  had  gone  far 
enough.  The  cause  of  the  request  was  then  explained. 
One  of  the  gentlemen  had  wagered  a  supper  that  I 
could  not  mention  five  hundred  ;  he  expressed  him- 
self much  pleased,  however,  at  the  loss,  having  been, 
as  he  acknovjedged,  highly  entertained  by  the  ex- 
periment." In  another  place,  in  adverting  to  his 
memory,  he  says  :  "  In  relation  to  geography,  I  be- 
came acquainted  with  every  place  of  note  on  the 
habitable  globe,  so  that  on  being  examined  by  some 
who  were  either  curious  or  doubtful  of  my  knowledge, 
my  descriptions  have  been  found  to  coincide  with 
the  best  constructed  maps.  Respecting  history,  the 
reader  will  best  judge  of  the  power  of  my  memory,  by 
the  followinar  relation  :    To  a  few  select  friends  who 


JAMK8    WILSON.  123 

wished  to  prove  ray  knowledge  of  English  history,  I 
repeated,  to  their  entire  satisfaction,  an  epitome  of 
the  history  of  England,  from  the  Norman  conquest 
till  the  peace  in  1783,  invasions,  conspiracies,  insur- 
rections, and  revolutions ;  the  names  of  all  the  kings 
and  queens ;  the  years  of  their  accessions  ;  the  length 
of  their  reigns,  and  the  affinity  each  had  to  his  prede- 
cessors ;  togetlier  with  the  names  and  characters  of 
all  the  great  statesmen,  heroes,  philosophers,  and 
poets,  who  flourished  in  the  different  reigns.  In  con- 
sequence of  this  and  similar  rehearsals,  I  was  termed 
'the  Living  Book,'  and  a  'Walking  Encyclopedia.'" 

We  hear  it  sometimes  remarked,  that  those  de- 
prived of  sight,  are  naturally  endowed  with  extraor- 
dinary retentive  powers.  But  we  claim,  that  memo- 
ry, like  all  other  faculties  of  the  mind,  is  only  strength 
ened  by  continued  exercise.  The  surprising  and  al- 
most unparalleled  degree  of  perfection  which  Mr.  Wil- 
son attained  in  this  respect,  he  ascribes  mainly  to  this 
cause.  Tlie  power  of  retaining  facts  and  impressions, 
of  recorded  events,  and  linking  togetUer  by  associa- 
tion a  chain  of  occurrences,  is  strikingly  analogous  to 
the  magnet,  which,  if  allowed  to  lie  inactive  and  to 
corrode,  soon  loses  its  mysterious  affinity  for  the  ob 
jects  that  have  clustered  about  it,  and  they  drop  one 
by  one  like  lost  remembrances.  But  if  strengthened 
by  daily  accession,  its  power  may  be  cultivated  to  an 
almost  illimitable  deg1"ee. 

Wilson  was  married  in  the  23d  year  of  his  age,  to 


124^  BEAUTIES    OF   THE    BLIND. 

a  respectable  young  lady  with  whom  he  had  beeii 
acquainted  for  some  time.  Her  unassuming  manners, 
amiable  disposition,  industrious  habits,  and  assiduous 
devotion  to  his  interests,  made  her  not  only  an  agreea- 
ble companion  of  his  youth,  but  a  solace  in  declining 
age.  They  had  eleven  children,  only  four  of  whom 
were  living  when  he  published  his  memoirs,  in  1838. 
His  merits  as  an  author,  and  line  literary  attainments, 
recommended  him  to  the  notice  of  many  distinguished 
cotemporary  writers,  among  whom  were  Dr.  Percy, 
bishop  of  Dromore,  last  of  that  illustrious  school  of 
which  Johnson,  Goldsmith,  and  Burke  were  mem- 
bers ;  and  the  Rev.  H.  Boyd,  well  known  in  the  lit- 
erary world  as  translator  of  Dante.  , 

Quite  early  in  life,  at  the  solicitation  of  his  friends, 
our  author  published  a  small  work  in  verse.  Though 
this  production  would  not,  perhaps,  commend  itself 
to  the  mercy  of  literary  cudgelers,  we  think  it  quite 
creditable,  and  shall  favor  our  readers  with  a  few 
selections. 

He  afterward  formed  the  design  of  publishing  a 
History  of  the  blind,  which  he  accomplished,  though 
attended  with  immense  labor,  in  1820.  To  this  work 
we  are  greatly  indebted  for  many  valuable  statistics. 


JAMKS    WIJ^ON.  12ff 


TO  MEMORY. 


Come,  Memory,  and  paint  those  scenmt 

I  knew  when  I  was  young, 
When  meadows  bloomed,  and  vernal  greena, 

By  nature's  band  were  sung. 

I  mean  those  hours  which  I  have  known. 

Ere  light  from  me  withdrew — 
When  blossoms  seemed  just  newly  blowc. 

And  wet  with  sparkling  dew. 

Yet,  ah  !  forbear,  kind  Memory,  cease 

The  picture  thus  to  scan  I 
Let  all  my  feelings  rest  in  peace, 

Tis  prudence'  better  plan ; 

For  why  should  I  on  other  days 

With  such  reflections  turn. 
Since  I'm  deprived  of  vision's  raya, 

Which  sadly  makes  me  mourn  ! 

And  when  I  backward  turn  my  mind, 

I  feel  of  sorrow's  pain. 
And  weep  for  jo^s  I  left  behind. 

On  childhood's  flowery  plain ; 

Yet  now,  through  intellectual  eyes, 

Upon  a  happier  shore. 
And  circled  with  eternal  skies. 

Youth  sweetly  smiles  once  more 

Futurity  displays  the  scene. 

Religion  lends  her  aid; 
And  decks  with  flowers  forever  gresk. 

And  blooms  that  ne'er  can  fade. 

Oh,  happy  time  I  when  will  it  come. 

Tliat  I  shall  quit  this  sphere, 
And  find  an  everlasting  home, 

With  peace  and  friendship  there!  * 


26  BEAUTIES  OF   THE    BLIND. 

Throughout  this  chequer'd  life  'tis  raiR« 

To  feel  affliction's  rod; 
But  soon  I'll  overstep  the  line 

That  keeps  me  from  my  God. 


A  DREAM. 

Kight  o'e  rthe  sky  her  sable  mantle  spread, 

AnA  all  around  was  hushed  in  sweet  repose. 

Nor  silence  suffered  from  intrusive  noise ; 

Save  now  and  then  the  owl's  unpleasant  scream 

From  yon  old  pile  of  ancient  grandeur  sent^ 

Broke  in,  obtrusive  on  the  tranquil  hours. 

Reflection  took  my  mind,  and  o'er  my  tho'ights 

Unnumbered  visions  flit  with  rapid  speeo. 

I  thought  on  man,  and  all  his  childless  joys, 

From  rosy  infancy  to  palsied  age — 

And  yet  the  sigh  of  recollection  stole, 

Then  heaved  my  breast  with  sorrow's  poignant  throt 

For  ah  I  I  feel  what  some  have  never  felt, 

That  is,  to  be  in  one  continued  night. 

From  January's  sun  till  dark  December's  evej 

And  strange  it  is,  when  sleep  commands  to  ro8t» 

While  gloomy  darkness  spreads  her  lurid  vai'. 

That  then  by  being  blind  I  suffer  most  I 

0  sight  I  what  art  thout  were  my  final  word* 
When  sleep  with  leaden  fingers  seal'd  my  eyes. 
Kow  free  from  care  and  tumult's  torturing  dio, 
Young  fancy  led  me  from  my  humble  cot ; 

And  far  through  space,  where  suns  unnumbered  bura, 

1  wilti  ner  took  a  grand  excursive  flight, 
Then  back  again  to.  Erin's  hill  of  green, 

I  with  her  wandered;  nor  did  night,  nor  gloom. 
One  step  intrude  to  shade  the  prospects  round. 
I  saw  sweet  Scarvagli,  in  her  loveliest  garb, 
And  a!/  her  trees  in  summer's  dress  were  clad  • 


JAMES   Wir^ON.  127 

Her  Honored  mansion,  seat  of  peace  and  love, 
Gave  rapture  to  my  breast,  for  there  Fve  found 
True  hospitality,  which  once  did  grace 
The  hall's  of  Erin's  chiefs  of  old  ; 
But  soon,  alas  I  the  hum  of  nightly  bands 
And  vagrants,  strolling  on  in  quest  of  sin. 
Bore  fancy  from  me  with  her  golden  traia. 
And  oiice  more  left  me.in  the  folds  of  night 


BEAUTIES  FROM  "A  BLIND  MAN^  OFFERING/ 

TOGETHER  WITH  A  SKETCH  OF  THE  AUTHOh's  LIFE. 

"Offerings  there  are,  of  moral  •wrorth  ami  talents. 
Sacrificed  to  lust  and  love  of  gain. 
To  envy,  hatred,  loves  inordinate. 
And  all  the  baser  passions  of  the  soul. 
But  thine  are  offerings  sacred  to  the  shrine 
Of  reason,  truth  and  sentiment,  replete 
With  beauties  rare,  and  treasures  of  the  mind." 

Man's  nature,  like  veneering,  may  be  warped  to 
ftlinost  every  condition  in  life.  It  may  be  bent  to 
angular  circumstances,  or  shaped  to  infirmities  ;  it 
may  be  marred  and  chafed  by  care  and  want ;  and 
still  present  a  surface  susceptible  of  the  highest  pol- 
ish. Misfortunes  which  may  seem  at  first  ailmost  in- 
supportable, may  grow  in  favor,  like  Crusoe's  pet 
opider,  and  at  length  come  to  be  regarded  as  old  and 
tried  friends,  if  not  positive  blessings.  Afflictions  are 
but  the  seasonings  of  life's  dish,  and  without  them  it 
leould  be  tasteless  and  insipid.  Without  the  ills  of 
life,  we  should  be  illy  prepared  to  enjoy  its  blessings. 
By  opposites,  alone,  we  judge  of  the  nature  of  things. 
Oontrast  is  the  betrayer  of  .every  object  in  nature. 
"Were  it  not  for  darkness,  or  the  absence  of  light,  we 
should  remain  forever  ignorant  of  the  existence  of 


BLIND    man's  offering.  129 

Ii'ofht  itself.  Wrong  is  the  only  rule  by  which  we  can 
measure  right  action  ;  and  were  there  no  pain  there 
would  be  no  pleasure.  Sorrows  are  but  ill-timed 
joys — wrong,  right  inverted — error,  reason's  blunders 
—  disappointment,  only  the  broken  links  in  life's 
chain  of  pleasant  associations,  and  often,  from  the 
common  ills  of  life  spring  our  choicest  blessings.  It 
is  folly  to  pine  at  misfortune,  while  the  world  is  full 
of  time,  and  effort  is  fruitful  of  success.  The  mind 
that  is  truly  great,  will  rise  above  the  petty  annoy- 
ances of  this  world,  and  though  the  visible  universe 
be  shrouded  in  midnight  darkness,  knowledge  will 
enter,  if  only  at  the  finger's  ends.  True,  thoughts, 
like  plants,  reach  up  for  the  light,  but  it  is  the  light 
of  truth ;  and  he  who  is  blind  to  this  light,  is  blind 
mdeed. 

Mr.  Bowen,  author  of  the  work  above  alluded  to, 
in  his  reflections  on  cheerfulness,  says  :  "  The  smile 
that  wreathes  the  lip  with  gladness  comes  not  from 
the  sunshine  without,  but  from  within.  The  physical 
world  is  not  beautiful  until  the  soul  has  breathed  upon 
it.  The  highest  happiness  of  which  we  are  capable 
can  proceed  only  from  the  heart  that  has  been  sanc- 
tified by  sorrow."  In  the  same  connection  he  adds : 
"  We  can  never  be  too  grateful  to  God  for  so  arrang- 
ing the  allotments  of  his  providence  that  there  is  al- 
ways something  in  the  situation  of  every  one,  which 
exerts  an  alleviating  influence." 

The  truth  of  the  lloman  adage,  that  all  things  are 
not  possible  to  all  men,  has  been  verified,  we  doubt 


18C  BEAUTIES   OF   THE   BLIND. 

not,  in  the  experience  of  most  persons.  And  tliu 
tlie  same  amount  of  knowledge,  or  degree  of  happi- 
ness is  not  within  the  reach  of  every  man,  is  equally 
true.  Yet  there  is  something  we  are  convinced  in  the 
condition  of  every  one,  in  a  measure,  compensatory 
for  all  his  privations  and  afflictions.  But  how  far  the 
loss  of  sight,  or  the  loss  of  either  of  the  other  senses, 
is  made  up  to  us  by  the  superior  development  of  the 
remaining  faculties,  from  the  degree  of  culture  which 
they  must  necessarily  receive,  or  by  creating  new  in- 
centives to  efforts,  by  awakening  new  desires,  direct- 
ing the  thoughts  and  affections  in  new  channels,  and 
opening  up  new  fields  of  enterprise,  is  difficult  to  de- 
termine. Every  station  in  life,  however  humble  or 
exalted,  has  its  advantages,  and  with  them  its  own 
sources  of  joy  and  grief.  The  highest  privilege  may 
be  abused,  and  the  purest  and  noblest  affections  of  the 
soul  may  be  perverted.  The  rich  man  may  be  ha]1py 
in  the  possession  of  great  wealth,  or  he  may  be  in- 
deed more  wretched  than  the  poor  man,  who  labors 
to  earn  a  scanty  subsistence ;  or  even  the  miserable  beg- 
gar by  the  wayside.  The  blind  man  may  see  more  in 
the  world  that  is  truly  worthy  of  his  admiration,  than 
the  man  who  is  blessed  with  perfect  sight.  Much, 
we  are  persuaded,  depends  upon  the  medium  through 
which  we  view  our  allotments.  A  false  glass  gives 
not  only  a  false  coloring  to  objects,  but  may  greatly 
magnify  or  distort  them.  Habitual  cheerfulness 
tends  rather  to  diminish  than  increase  the  burden  of 
aHlictions,  while  despondency  is  sure  to  cast  a  gloom 


BLIND    HiN's    OFFERING  131 

.•ver  all  that  is  bright  and  beautiful  in  nature.  A 
cheerful  submission  to  whatever  is  manifestly  irrem- 
ediable, can  never  fail  to  be  productive  of  the  most 
happy  results. 

It  is  not  wonderful  that  ancient  philosophers  were 
forced  to  acknowledge  the  necessity  of  a  more  perfect 
revelation  from  God,  in  order  to  understand  his  ar 
rangements.  In  the  light  of  divine  revelation,  he  has 
not  only  exhibited  the  beauty  and  perfection  of  his 
own  character,  but  the  intrinsic  excellence  of  all  cre- 
ated objects,  the  end  for  which  they  were  designed, 
and  the  true  relation  of  the  creature  to  its  Creator. 
Tlirough  this  medium  alone,  do  we  behold  nature  in 
her  true  aspect.  And  it  is  by  this  light  alone  that 
we  are  enabled  to  discover  the  justice  of  each  divine 
dispensation.  Before  it  every  shadow  of  doubt  and 
despondency,  gloom  and  fear,  must  vanish  like  the 
shades  of  night  before  the  king  of  day. 

It  is  to  us  a  source  of  no  small  satisfaction,  to  find 
in  the  writings  of  all  blind  persons  whose  works  have 
fallen  into  our  hands,  this  spirit  of  christian  resigna- 
tion and  implicit  trust  in  Him  who  doeth  all  things 
well ;  but  in  none  is  it  more  beautifully  exemplified 
than  in  the  life  and  writings  of  Mr.  Bowen,  our  gifted 
American  author. 

Mr.  B.  B.  Bowen,  author  of  the  "  Blind  Man't 
Offering,"  was  born  in  the  town  of  Marblehead,  Ma& 
sachusetts,  in  the  year  1819.  At  the  early  age  of  six 
weeks  he  was  deprived  of  sight,  and  when  but  six 
vears  old  he  lost  his  mother.     He  early  manifested 


132  ^ifiAUTD-rS    OF    THE    BLIND. 

erei  .  puysicai  activity,  and  owing  t?  I::.;  father's  in- 
digeni  circUimstauces,  be  was  forced  to  rely  upon  hia 
own  efforts  for  maintenance.  When  but  ten  years 
of  age,  be  was  employed  in  carrying  fresh  fish,  as  they 
were  daily  caught,  to  the  different  houses  in  the  place, 
receiving  for  his  services  twenty  per  cent. 

Ilis  destitute  circumstances,  and  the  great  incon- 
venience under  which  be  labored,  secured  to  him,  as 
might  naturally  be  supposed,  the  patronage  of  the 
wealthy.  Although  the  few  pennies  earned  in  this 
way  were  barely  sufficient  to  supply  his  immediate 
wants,  his  reliance  upon  this  humble  occupation  for 
means  of  support  not  only  fostered  a  spirit  of  inde- 
pendence, but  early  developed  those  firm  principles 
which  always  form  the  basis  of  a  great  and  noble 
character.  With  Burns,  we  like  the  glorious  privi- 
lege of  being  independent.  Self-dependence  we  re- 
gard as  the  main  prop  of  manliness.  As  freedom  of 
will  forms  the  basis  of  present  and  eternal  happiness, 
80  self  dependence  is  the  pillar  of  every  ennobling 
virtue. 

At  the  age  of  fourteen,  he  was  selected  by  Dr 
Howe  as  one  of  the  six  blind  children,  with  whom 
the  first  experiments  in  the  instruction  of  this  class 
were  made  in  the  United  States.  His  first  two  years 
at  this  institution  were  spent  mainly  at  manual  labor, 
but  subsequent  to  this  more  of  his  attention  was  given 
to  study  ;  and  at  the  expiration  of  his  term  he  main- 
tained a  respectable  standing  in  all  the  principal 
studies  of  the'first  class,  except  higher  mathematics. 


BLIND   man's   offering.  13U  ' 

In  music  he  had  also  made  considerable  proliciency, 
and  after  an  honorable  discharge  from  the  institution, 
in  1838,  he  returned  to  his  native  town,  where  he 
employed  his  time  in  teaching  music,  and  those  han- 
dicrafts which  he  had  learned  at  the  institute.  Be- 
ing desirous  that  all  laboring  under  similar  privations 
should  share  the  benefit  which  these  institutions  af- 
ford, he  at  length  embarked  as  an  itinerant  lecturer, 
endeavoring  to  awaken  public  interest  in  behalf  of 
the  blind. 

Feeling  deeply  impressed  with  the  idea  expressed 
in  the  Garden  of  Eden,  namely,  "  that  it  is  not  good 
for  man  to  be  alone,"  he  sought  and  obtained  the 
hand  of  one  who  has  thus  far  stre \vn  the  rugged  path- 
way of  his  life  with  flowers.  In  alluding  to  this 
event,  he  thus  beautifully  remarks  :  "  I  could  tell 
you  of  one  who,  free  from  the  intense  selfishness  in 
which  so  many  hearts  seem  shrouded,  with  graces  of 
person  made  more  attractive  by  a  brilliant  intellect, 
and  a  heart  of  untainted  purity,  left  her  father's  halls, 
and  the  society  of  her  early  asociates,  to  share  the 
humble  lot  of  one  who  could  never  see  her  face,  or 
return  her  glance  of  deep  affection.  It  was  not  that 
ehe  was  actuated  by  a  morbid  sensibility,  nor  with 
the  thought  that  she  was  making  any  greater  sacri- 
fice than  if  she  had  shared  the  destiny  of  one  less 
unfortunate.  Wo  !  It  w^as  because  she  honored  him 
whom  she  loved;  because  her  education  had  made  her 
superior  to  vulgar  prejudices,  that  she  was  willing  to 
adorn  the  humble  home  of  a  blind  man." 


134  BEAUTIES  OF  THE  BLIND. 

In  184:7,  lie  published  a  work  in  12nio,  comprising 
over  four  hundred  pages  of  prose  and  verse,  entitle^ 
*'  A  Blind  Man's  Offering,"  of  which  he  has  person 
ally  sold  about  eighteen  thousand  copies.  This  pro 
duction  has  been  favorably  reviewed,  and  everywhere 
received  and  read  with  interest.  We  cannot  better 
recommend  it  to  our  readers,  than  by  giving  the  fol 
lowing,  which  is,  we  think,  a  just  example  of  the  el 
egant  style  in  which  it  is  written  : 


MUSIC. 


"  The  man  that  hath  not  music  in  his  soul. 
And  is  not  moved  l»y  tlie  concord  of  sweet  sounds, 
Is  fit  for  treasons,  stratagems  and  spoils."   • 

Tliere  is  but  one  universal  language,  one  idiom,  by 
which  we  can  express  those  feelings,  sentiments  and 
ideas  common  to  all.  This  language,  this  idiom,  is 
music.  It  pervades  all  nature.  And  it  is  this  which 
seems  to  connect  us,  by  a  thousand  mystic  ties,  to 
every  created  thing,  and  makes  us  feel,  in  our  silent, 
contemplative  moments,  a  sympathetic  relationship 
with  every  object  by  which  we  are  surrounded,  or 
with  which  we  have  been  associated.  The  tree,  be- 
neath whose  shade  we  played  in  our  childhood,  whj  ' 
is  it  that  we  yet  remember  it  ?  And  why  do  we  yet 
feel  that  between  it  and  us  there  once  existed  ;; 
strange  but  undefinable  companionship  ?  Never, 
amid  the  din  and  noise  of  the  world,  the  selfishness 


BLIND  man's   OFEFRmO.  135 

and  activity  of  life,  can  we  entirely  forget  the  music 
of  its  rustling  leaves,  or  the  thoughts  it  awakened,  as 
it  echoed,  at  quiet  evening,  the  vesper  hymn  of  the 
flowers,  or  answered,  at  noonday,  to  the  song  of  the 
rills.  Why  is  it  that  we  yet  retain  recollection  of 
those  we  love,  when  their  image  no  longer  dwells  in 
our  mind  ?  It  is  the  music  of  the  voice  divine,  that 
can  never  die.  For  the  tones  of  love  survive  the 
glance  of  affection. 

O  Music !  divinest  of  all  the  arts !  deepest  of  ali 
mysteries !  In  thee  is  embalmed  the  memory  of  the 
past,  and  from  thee  comes  the  hope  of  the  future. 
Tliou  only  revealest  the  coming  blessedness  of  the 
race ;  thou  only  prophesiest  of  universal  harmony. 
The  phenomena  of  light,  like  that  of  sound,  is  the  re- 
sult of  innumerable  vibrations.  Everything  in  na- 
ture seems  to  be  in  perpetual  agitation,  and  eaoh,  in 
its  own  way,  is  ever  chanting  a  gladsome  strain,  that 
blendeth  in  a  common  chorus,  to  the  Maker  of  all. 
From  the  low  song  of  the  flowers,  so  sweet  and  plaint- 
ive, to  the  chorus  of  the  spheres,  so  grand  and  majes 
tic,  there  is  perpetually  ascending  to  the  Fountain  of 
all,  a  hymn  of  gratitude  and  praise.  In  this  univer- 
sal harmony,  there  is  but  one  exception,  one  discord. 
Of  all  created  things,  man  alone  mars  this  paean  of 
nature.  Yes,  "  the  harp  of  a  thousand  strings,"  made 
capable  of  such  high  music,  formed  for  such  diviue 
strains,  withholds  its  tribute  to  the  universal  harmony, 
or  mai"s  with  its  broken  cadence. 

The  heart  of  humanity,  from  which  once  issued 


136  BEAUTIKS   OF   THE   BLEND. 

such  holy  melodies,  where  is  now  its  primeval  tnin 
strelsy?  Ov^er  its  broken  strings  sweeps  no  more  the 
spirit  of  love.  The  fiend  of  selfishness  has  broken  the 
instrument,  made  by  the  hand  of  God  for  the  holiest 
purposes ;  and  wliere  e''st  an  angel  caroled,  there 
shrieks  a  demon.  Sad  and  mournful  comes  the  dirgo 
from  him  who  should  have  foremost  sung  the  glad- 
some song  in  nature's  universal  orchestra.  O  man  ! 
must  it  ever  be  thus?  Must  thou  forever  sing,  in 
broken  strains,  the  requiem  of  thy  departed  joys — of 
thy  lost  glory  ?  Shall  there  gush  no  more  from  out 
thy  heart  that  deep  delight  that  made  thy  early  Eden 
vocal  with  thy  praises  ?  Shall  thy  wondrous  voice, 
formed  for  such  lofty  eloquence,  be  tuned  no  more 
in  unison  with  nature?  Must  thy  bitter  wailing 
never  cease  ?  and  all  thy  life  seem  but  a  mockery  ? 

No  I  it  shall  not  always  be  thus  with  thee, 
Thou  greatest  of  all  earth's  mystery  ; 
Thy  noblest  song  is  not  yet  snug, 
Thy  highest  work  is  not  yet  done. 

What  the  world  most  needs  is  a  benefactor ;  one 
w?ho  shall  expound  to  our  race  the  laws  of  harmony, 
the  observance  of  which  shall  place  men  in  true  rela- 
tionship to  each  other  and  to  nature.  A  poet  or  a 
prophet,  whose  burning  words  shall  awaken,  in  the 
mighty  heart  of  humanity,  a  deeper  consciousness  of 
its  unity  and  its  harmonies,  that  shall  kindle  once 
more  in  the  bosom  of  man  the  flame  of  seraphic  min- 
strelsy, and  revive  again  ":b'^flo  l)eautiful  afliuities  thit 


BLIND   man's   OFFFBING.  187 

« 

once  united  him  to  all  intelligences.  Then  will  music, 
the  divinest  of  all  the  arts,  become  what  it  once  was 
— the  medium  of  all  true  tliought  and  expression. 

Tliere  are  times,  when  oppressed  by  the  concep- 
tions and  aspirations  of  th(  soul,  we  strive  in  vain  for 
utterance.  There  are  no  words  that  can  convey  our 
ideas.  Then  it  is  that  we  have  recourse  to  music, 
for  it  IS  then  only  that  we  can  truly  understand  its 
significance  and  power.  We  strive  to  make  ourselves 
heard  and  understood,  but  our  yearnings  and  our 
struggles  meet  with  no  response.  The  dark  world  is 
too  much  engrossed  in  its  selfishness  and  sensuality. 
We  commune  only  with  the  voices  of  the  past,  with 
the  spirits  of  the  departed.  Are  we  sad  and  sorrow- 
ful, we  crave  the  deep  sympathy  of  Beethoven.  If 
we  would  raise  ourselves  above  this  poor  life,  and 
catdi  a  glimpse  of  a  higher  destiny,  we  listen  with 
gratitude  and  admiration  to  Mozart  and  Ilayden. 
There  are  a  host  of  others,  who  come  at  our  bidding, 
and  with  their  deep,  impassioned  strains  assuage  our 
griefs  and  elevate  our  joys.  It  is  at  such  times  that 
we  cease  to  be  conscious  of  that  dark  pall  that,  from 
our  infancy,  hath  vailed  from  us  the  beautiful  in 
earth  and  sky. 

From  my  earliest  days  I  have  felt  within  me  8 
striving  to  be  free,  that  music  can  only  adequatel} 
express :  a  longing  for  a  deeper  sympathy,  a  closer 
communion  with  the  good,  the  true,  the  beautiful. 
In  childhood,  those  blessed  and  balmy  days,  when 
the  fragrance  of  the  flowers  and  the  music  of  the 


18M  BEAUTIES   OF  THE   BLIND. 

oirds  thrilled  mj  heart  with  deep  delight,  I  felt  within 
— I  knew  not  what — a  spirit,  whose  plaintive,  earnest 
voice  wept  and  smiled,  and  ever  yearned  for  a  fuller, 
brighter  manifestation.  'T  was  all  in  vain  I  strove  to 
express  its  meaning.  To  each  dear,  cherished  thing, 
around  which  affection  twined,  the  voice  within  re- 
plied, "  It  will  not  do."  The  spirit  cried  aloud  for 
something-  more.  But  once,  but  only  once,  it  gave 
me  rest.  O,  that  happiest  hour  of  all  ray  life,  that 
deepest  joy  I  ever  knew !  The  sun's  last  rays  had 
kissed  the  verdant  hill-top  and  trailed  in  beauty  along 
the  evening  sky.  The  soft  zephyr,  laden  with  ihe 
perfume  of  a  thousand  flowers,  distilled  its  grateful 
ijcense  upon  all  around.  The  birds  had  caroled  tnujt 
last  sweet  lay  and  gone  to  rest.  A  deep,  delicious 
languor  overspread  all  nature.  At  that  holy  hour, 
when  solemn  thoughts,  that,  like  the  stars,  come  forth 
at  night  to  shine  within  the  soul's  serener  sky,  when 
nature  everywhere  seems  wrapped  in  meditation 
deep,  profound, — I  wandered  forth  alone,  for  unto  me 
joth  day  and  night  are  one.  Yet,  dearest  of  all  time 
18  summer  eve,  for  it  was  at  such  an  hour,  that  I  first 
felt  the  mystery  of  that  voice  divine,  that  awoke 
NK-ithin  me  such  unutterable  delight,  that  called  forth 
from  my  heart  such  deep  response,  as  music  only  hath 
power  to  awaken.  O  !  if  I  had  but  fitting  words  to 
tell  how  all-absorbing,  how  uncontrollable,  was  the 
love  awakened  by  those  dulcet  tones,  that  softly 
trembled  on  the  evening  air.  At  that  blessed  hour, 
most  blessed  of  all  my  life,  when  she,  my  Isadora, 


BLIND  man's  offering.  139 

accompanied  by  her  guitar,  breathed  forth  this  im 
passioned  lay  : 

"Give  me  the  night,  the  calm,  beautiful  night, 
When  the  green  earth  reposes  in  heaven's  own  light , 
When  tiie  moon  and  the  stars  keep  their  vigils  above, 
And  nought  is  awake  save  the  spirit  of  love. 
# 
,       "When  visions  of  memory  visit  the  heart, 

Like  the  dreams  of  the  past,  which  too  soon  must  depart 
And  the  soul  fondly  dwells  on  the  scenes  of  delight. 
Give  me  the  night,  the  calm,  beautiful  night. 

"Spirit  of  love,  in  yon  isles  of  the  blest, 
Where  the  bright  and  the  beautiful  ever  have  rest. 
Spread  thy  wings  o'er  the  earth,  now  so  smiling  and  fair 
And  breathe  all  thy  tenderness,  loveliness  there. 

"Though  the  tear  will  escape  as  the  heart  heaves  a  aigh. 
And  thoughts,  all  too  deep  for  emotion,  reply, 
Yet  the  soul  lingers  still  o'er  the  scene  of  delight, — 
Give  me  the  night,  the  calm,  beautifuj  night." 

She  ceased ;  but  in  my  soul,  that,  until  then,  ha  1 
nut  known  aught  of  companionship,  there  was  crea- 
ted a  sense  of  fullness  and  deep  joy,  an  all-pervading 
consciousness  that  I  was  blessed,  supremely  blessed 
Years  have  passed  away,  but  memory  of  that  houi 
shall  live  forever. 

My  Isadora,  but  for  thee. 

E'en  doubly  dark  this  world  would  be. 

He  who  may  never  hope  to  gaze  upon  earth  or  sky, 
who  can  never  behold  the  light  of  the  sun,  nor  look 
upon  the  face  of  a  friend,  can  only  adequately  appre- 
ciate the  music  of  the  human  voice.     To  him  or\}y 


1  iO  BEAUTIES  OF  THE  BLIND. 

can  music  impart  its  highest  delight,  and  change  his 
midnight  darkness  to  a  noonday  splendor.  Who  can 
estimate  fully  the  influence  of  music  upon  the  heart 
and  the  life  ?  What  can  do  more  to  soften  and  refine 
the  feelings?  to  purify  and  elevate  the  whole  nature? 
And  why  should  it  not  exert  as  great  a  power  now, 
as  in  the  earlier  ages  of  Society  ?  Why  not  have 
as  much  influence  upon  the  civilized,  as  the  savage 
man?  Those  who  have  been  the  most  constantly  af- 
fected by  it,  who  are  best  capable  of  appreciating 
its  eflfects,  tell  us  that  there  is  nothing  that  can  so 
exalt  and  ennoble  the  moral  and  religious  element. 
Who  can  calculate  the  influence  it  exerts  in  our 
churches  ?  What  is  so  well  designed  to  lift  the  mind 
fi'om  earth  to  the  contemplation  of  heaven  ?  And 
then,  too,  consider  the  influence  of  music  upon  our 
social  feelings.  There  is  nothing  like  the  concord  of 
sweet  sounds  that  can  so  move  the' heart  to  noble 
deeds  and  lofty  daring,  and  that,  at  the  same  time, 
can  prompt  to  that  spirit  of  kindness  and  disinterest- 
edness that  softens  and  beautiries  our  social  inter 
course.  However,  the  power  to  appreciate  music  is 
the  gift  of  God.  Shall  I  not  say  it  is  one  of  the  no- 
blest vouchsafed  to  man  ?  Blessed  is  he  who  pos- 
sesses it,  and  can  appreciate  it.  For  amidst  all  the 
vicissitudes  of  this  strange  life,  he  has  within  him  that 
which  can  sustain  and  cheer  him.  It  is  a  pleasant 
thing  to  see  the  smiling  faces  of  those  around  you,'tc 
look  upon  the  sjjeaking  countenances  of  your  friends, 
to  read  the  burning  thoughts  that  come  forth  in  each 


BLIND   man's   offering.  141 

glance  of  the  eye.  But  the  beautiful  face  soon  be- 
comes pale  and  emaciated  ;  the  eye  soon  loses  its 
brilliancy  and  luster,  the  form  its  grace,  and  the  step 
its  elasticity;  but  the  music  of  the  voice  can  neve? 
die.  Like  the  soul,  it  is  divine  and  immortal.  Great 
is  his  privilege  for  whom  nature,  with  its  myriad  ob- 
jects of  beauty,  has  power  to  delight — who  can  look 
upon  the  green,  beautiful  earth — who  can  gaze  upon 
tlie  heavens,  adorned  with  its  innumerable  lights.  But 
there  is  yet  a  greater  boon,  there  is  a  depth  in  music 
which  transcends  all  else. 

"O,  say,  is  there  a  star  above, 
Like  the  low,  8w«^t  voice  of  one  you  love  f " 

Inere  is  no  faculty  1  possess  with  which  I  would 
not  part,  rather  than  relinquish  the  high  satisfaction 
which  music  affords.  Gladly  would  I  open  these 
sealed  orbs,  and  look  out  upon  the  vast,  magnificent 
universe  ;  but  I  would  not  accept  so  great  a  boon,  if 
it  must  be  obtained  at  the  sacrifice  of  the  deep  de- 
light, of  the  inexpressible  joy,  of  the  unutterable  hap- 
piness, which  music  alone  can  impart. 


MRS.  S.  H  DEKROYFT. 

"The  darksome  pines  that  o'er  your  rocks  reclin-d. 

Wave  high,  and  murmur  to  the  hollow  wind, 

The  wandering  streams,  that  shine  between  the  hillt, 

The  grots  that  echo  to  the  tinkling  rills, 

The  dying  gales  that  pant  upon  the  trees, 

The  lakes  that  quiver  to  the  curling  breeze ; 

No  more  these  scenes  my  meditation  aid. 

Or  lull  to  rest  the  visionary  maid: 

But  o'er  the  twilight  groves  and  dusky  caves. 

Long-sounding  aisles,  and  intermingled  graves. 

Black  melancholy  sits,  and  round  her  throws, 

A  death-like  silence,  and  a  dread  repose ; 

Her  gloomy  presence  saddens  all  the  scene. 

Shades  every  flower,  darkens  every  green. 

Deepens  the  murmur  of  the  falling  floods. 

And  breathes  a  browner  horror  on  the  woods." 

la  the  preceding  biographical  sketches,  it  has  been 
our  uniform  purpose  to  collect  all  the  authentic  sta- 
tistics, relative  to  the  lives  of  our  authors,  we  could 
find  in  either  European  or  American  literature,  and 
form  a  chain  of  events,  interspersed  with  such  origi- 
nal remarks  as  the  occasion  and  our  own  experience 
under  similar  circumstances,  seemed  to  suggest. 

But  in  noticing  our  present  authoress,  having  been 
unable  to  procure  any  accounts  of  her  strangely 
eventful  and  interesting  history,  save  those  she  has 
given  to  the  public  in  her  beautiful  and  universally 


MK8.    8.    H.    DEKKO YFT.  143 

admired  volume,  entitled,  "A  Place  in  Thy  Memory," 
we  deem  it  proper  to  digress  from  onr  former  rule, 
and  give  them  principally  in  her  own  language  and 
connection. 

The  beautiful  metaphoric  drapery  thrown  around 
tliese  references  to  her  life  and  misfortunes,  and  the 
simple,  natural,  and  deeply  feeling  manner  in  which 
she  tells  her  tale  of  woe,  form  paragraphs  so  sacred 
that  it  seems  like  ruthless  sacrilege  to  divest  them  of 
their  original  attire. 

The  following  tender  and  pathetic  lines,-  that  must 
move  every  reader  to  tears,  susceptible  in  the  slight- 
est degree  to  feel  for  others'  woes,  serve  us  as  a  par- 
tial introduction  to  her.  history  : 

JRocHESTEK,  OcUiber^  1846. 
"  Deak  Clara  : — 'Tis  autumn,  and  to-day  the  winds 
howl  mournfully  among  the  trees.  Four  long  weeks 
I  have  been  pillowed  on  a  sick  couch,  and  though 
with  much  of  its  drapery  around  me,  I  can  to-day 
sit  in  an  easy  chair.  Fever  still  burns  on  my  cheeks, 
and  my  brow  is  pressed  with  throbbing  pain.  Last 
night  they  fed  me  opium,  and  1  slept  a  pleasant  sleep 
I  dreamed  of  other  days.  I  thought  that  we  again, 
arm  in  arm,  paced  the  halls  of  the  old  seminary,  and 
talked  confidingly  of  bright  realities  in  the  future. 
The  chime  of  the  welcome  school-bell  aeuiii  ranjj  in 
my  ears,  and  I  heard  the  halls  echo  with  the  familiar 
tread  of  many  feet,  and  mingling  voices,  all  buoyant 
with  hope   and   love.     This  morning,  I  engaged  a 


144  BBAUTIES   OF   THE   BLIND. 

friend  to  write  for  rae,  wliile  I  fancy  myself  whisper- 
ing iu  your  ear  the  story  of  all  that  grieves  me,  and 
wrings  every  joy  from  my  heart.  'Truth  is  often 
stranger  than  fiction,'  and  the  tale  I  shall  tell  you, 
needs  no  coloring.  Clara,  I  am  hlind  !  forever  shroud- 
ed in  the  thick  darkness  of  an  endless  night.  And 
now,  when  I  look  down  the  current  of  coming  years, 
a  heavy  gloom  settles  on  me,  almost  to  suffocation. 

"  Is  there  nny  sympathy  in  3^our  heart  ?  Oli,  then 
weep  with  me,  for  now,  like  an  obstinate  prisoner,  I 
feel  my  spirit  struggling  to  be  free.  But  oh,  'tis  all 
in  vain,  'tis  all  over,  misery's  self  seems  stopping  my 
breath,  hope  is  dead,  and  my  heart  sinks  within  me. 
Clara,  I  am  in  a  laud  of  strangers,  too.  Stranger 
voices  sound  in  my  ears,,  and  stranger  hands  smooth 
my  brow,  and  administer  to  my  wants.  I  see  them 
not,  but  I  know  they  have  learned  the  laws  of  kind- 
ness. I  love  them,  and  pray  Heaven  to  hold  them 
in  remembrance.  But  let  me  change  the  subject. 
Tlie  first  year  after  we  parted  at  school,  my  love  of 
knowledge  increased  every  day.  I  continued  Italian 
with  a  success  that  pleased  me.  I  read  various  French 
authors,  besides  translating  most  of  the  Old  Testa- 
ment Scriptures,  reviewed  Rollin,  &c. 

"  In  June  last.  Dr.  DeKroyft  was  seized  with  hem- 
orrhage of  the  lungs.  He  seut  for  me  and  I  came  to 
him.  Every  day  his  lips  grew  whiter,  and  the  deep 
paleiiRss  on  his  brow  alarmed  me.  Now,  iu  a  half- 
coughing  tone,  I  hear  him  say,  '  Helen,  I  fear  the 


MRS.    8.    H.    DEKROYPl.  145 

hand  of  consumption  is  settling  on  me,  and  ray  daya 
will  soon  be  numbered  ! 

"  On  the  afternoon  of  the  Fourtli  he  visited  me, 
went  out,  and  returned  no  more.  Our  wedding-day 
came.  It  was  his  wish,  and  by  his  bedside  our  mar- 
riage was  confirmed.  Soon  after,  I  saw  him  die. 
They  laid  him  in  the  ground,  and  I  heard  the  fresh 
dirt  rattle  on  his  narrow  home,  and  felt  as  if  my  hold 
on  life  had  left  me.  I  lingered  in  R.  a  few  weeks 
longer.  How  I  got  through  the  days  I  do  not  know. 
William's  room,  his  books,  and  the  garden  where  I 
wept,  are  all  I  remember,  until  I  awoke  one  morning 
and  my  eyes  were  swollen  tiglit  together.  I  could 
no  more  move  them,  or  lift  np  the  lids,  than  roll  the 
mountains  from  their  places.  They  were  swollen 
with  an  inflammation  that,  three  days  after,  made  me 
forever  blind — oh,  the  word  !  Like  the  thunders  of 
Niagara,  it  was  more  than  I  could  bear. 

"Thus,. dear  Clara,  in  simplicity,  I  have  told  you 
all.  No,  not  the  half.  Words  can  never  reach  the 
feelings  that  swell  my  heart,  imagination  can  never 
paint  them.  They  are  known  only  to  me.  Sorrow, 
melancholy,  blighted  hopes,  wounded  love,  grief  and 
despair,  clad  in  hues  of  darkness,  all  brood  upon  my 
silent  heart,  and  bitter  fear  is  in  all  ray  thoughts. 
Oh,  what  will  become  of  me  ?  Is  there  benevolence 
in  this  world  ?  Must  charity  supply  my  wants  ?  Will 
there  be  always  some  hand  to  lead  me  ?  Have  the 
blind  ever  a  home  in  any  heart  ?  Does  anything 
ever  cheer  them?     Are  their  lives  always  useless? 


146  BEAUTIES   OF  THE  BLDTD. 

Is  there  any  thing  they  can  do?  So  I  question,  and 
wonder,  until  with  morphine  they  quiet  my  distracted 
thoughts.  When  my  eyes  were  swelling  as  if  they 
would  quit  their  sockets,  and  my  entire  being  was 
racked  with  pain,  forgive  me,  Clara,  I  did  question 
if  there  be  a  God  in  heaven  who  is  always  merciful. 
But  to-day,  in  the  calmness  of  better  feelings,  my 
confidence  is  unmoved,  and,  'though  he  slay  me, 
yet  will  I  trust  in  him.'  Though  I  do  not  feel  all  the 
self-abnegation  of  Fenelon,  yet  I  am  certain  my  heav- 
enly Father  loves  me,  and  will  grant  me  ever  his  pro- 
tecting care  and  sustaining  grace.  Adieu,  but  think 
of  me,  and  pray  for  me  sometimes." 

Tears,  and  such  deep  anguish  of  soul  as  we  find 
portrayed  in  the  above,  stoics  have  attributed  to 
weakness  and  imbecility  of  mind  ;  but,  instead  of  co- 
mciding  with  such  philosophy,  we  are  persuaded  that 
precisely  the  opposite  is*  true.  The  sluggish  stream 
that  moves  torpidly  in  its  encumbered  course,  can 
be  suddenly  stopped  without  agitating  its  smooth  and 
languid  surface  ;  but  the  crystal  torrent,  cheered  by 
misty  clouds  and  rainbow  tints,  that  rushes  down  the 
mountain  side  in  power  and  majesty,  if  impeded, 
foams  in  fury,  and  impetuous  waves  m  desperation 
wild,  dash  to  and  fro,  till  freed  again  to  move  forward 
in  its  resistless  course.  The  dull  and  selfish  being 
who  plods  along  without  comprehending  eithei  his 
design  or  destiny,  or  cheered  with  no  higher  lope 
than  mere  physical  gratification,  is  ever  secure  against 


MK8.    8.    H.    DE  KKOYFT.  147 

jverwhelniing  spiritual  depression.  The  loftiest 
minds  that  have  ever  gemmed  tlie  canopj  of  fame, 
wept  most  over  suffering  humanity  and  bh'glited 
ncpes.  A  distinguished  editor,  adverting  to  her  mis- 
fortune, says  :  "  Humanity  must  view  the  change  with 
weeping  surprise  and  wonder  at  the  ways  of  Provi- 
dence. Surely  angels  of  pity  must  hover  around  her, 
and  the  blessed  m  heaven  drop  a  tear  of  sympathy  at 
the  necessity  of  a  sacrifice  so  deplorable  for  the  ad- 
monition of  the  world.'" 

But  her  ever  active  mind,  richly  stored  with  the 
choicest  treasures  of  science,  could  not  long  thus  re- 
coil upon  itself,  and  pine  over  irretrievable  misfor- 
tunes. Soon  after  her  melancholy  privation,  through 
the  influence  of  kind  and  official  friends,  she  obtained 
permission  to  spend  a  term  of  one  year  at  the  New 
York  Institution  for  the  Blind,  hoping  there  to  dis- 
sipate, in  the  pursuit  of  knowledge,  the  bitter  sor- 
rows that  oppressed  her  ieart.  But  her  former  op- 
portunities having  advanced  her  far  beyond  the 
literary  pale  of  this  Institute,  it  could  J)wt  serve  as 
an  altar  or  tower  of  retreat  from  the  cold  world, 
until  she  could  collect  her  scattered  powers  and  con- 
centrate them  upon  some  object,  in  the  pursuit  of 
which  she  could  provide  for  herself  the  necessaries 
of  life.  The  chaste,  elegant,  and  magic  eloquence 
of  her  literary  composition,  was  not  long  in  recom- 
mending her  to  public  favor,  and  she  soon  liit  upon 
the  happy  expedient  of  publishing  a  book,  and  enga- 
ging personally  in  its  sale. 


148  BEAUTIES   OF  THE   BLIKD. 

Her  modest  and  biglily  intelligent  appearance,  and 
the  laudable  object  for  which  she  toiled,  secured 
friends  and  public  patronage  beyond  her  most  san- 
guine hopes.  We  cannot  better  do  her  justice,  in 
this  connection,  than  by  copying  the  following  sum- 
mary editorial : 

"  How  few  who  may  read  this  paragraph,  would 
think  it  possible  for  them,  entirely  without  means,  to 
get  up  a  book,  transact  all  the  business  contracts  and 
operations  necessary,  and  then,  without  a  single  ray 
of  light  to  guide  their  steps,  go  out  personally  to  sell 
it,  day  after  day,  patiently  ferreting  out  dark,  lonely 
streets,  and  climbing  winding  stairs ;  thereby  to  se- 
cure food  and  raiment.  Such  enterprise  is  worthy  of 
praise,  and  deserves  the  encouragement  of  every  pa- 
tron of  honest  industry.  This  looks  to  us  like  the  am- 
bition of  Napoleon  crossing  the  Alps,  or  gathering  his 
scattered  army  after  his  discomfiture  at  Moscow. 

The  purpose  of  this  blind  lady  is,  to  secure  for  her- 
self "  a  little  cottage  and  a  little  plat,"  which  she 
may  call  her  home.  Her  cottage  must  be  built. 
Every  book  sold,  piles  one  stone  on  its  walls,  and  all 
who  enjoy  a  good  home,  and  wlio  can  look  upon  ita 
dear  and  loved  inmates,  cannot  better  add  to  the  zest 
of  its  enjoyments  than  by  mingling  with  them  the 
consciousness  of  having  contributed  to  provide  the 
same  for  one  who  is  eminently  qualified  to  enjoy  and 
ornament  domestic  life,  and  upon  whom  has  falieu 
this  unparalleled  su^.'cession  of  bereavements,  thus  do- 


UBS.    8.    U.    DEKROYFT.  14b 

» 

scribed  in  her  own  words :  "  1  was  in  one  short  month 
a  bride,  a  widow,  and  blind." 

Sucli  men  as  our  late  President  Taylor,  Mr.  Clay, 
General  Waddy  Thompson,  Senator  Dawson,  Mr 
Burt,  General  Greene,  Rev.  Dr.  Nott,  and  Dr  Turner 
of  New  York,  and  his  excellency,  Governor  Floyd  of 
Virginia,  and  many  other  distinguished  individuals, 
both  of  the  clergy  and  laity,  together  with  the  prin 
cipal  editors  of  New  York,  Washington,  Charleston. 
S.  C,  Boston,  Salem,  Portland,  and  other  places,  have 
lent  their  influence  to  this  work  ;  and,  moreover,  Mrs. 
DeKroyft  brings  with  her  letters  from  many  of  the 
most  gifted  ladies  of  our  land,  one  of  whom,  from 
Washington,  says  :  "  That  Mrs.  DeKroyft  is  a  lady 
of  more  than  ordinary  interest,  we  need  say  only  to 
those  who  have  not  had  the  pleasure  of  listening  to 
her  graceful  conversation,  or  reading  one  of  her 
chafming  letters  in  'A  Place  in  Thy  Memory,' which 
we  are  happy  to  say,  ornaments  almost  every  draw- 
ing-room in  Washington  City.  It  is  a  book  which 
may  be  read  with  profit  by  the  most  talented,  as  well 
as  the  most  common  reader.  It  occurs  to  us  that  this 
book  is  really  one  of  the  most  interesting  and  useful 
Gift  Books  for  the  season.  It  is  no  fiction  from  '  this 
flood  '  of  literature  that  is  now  upon  us,  but  a  true, 
an  interesting,  and  a  peculiar  phase  of  real  life,  that 
will  do  good  wherever  it  is  read  and  pondered.  The 
book  is  embellished  with  an  engraving  of  the  author, 
and  the  New  York  Institution  for  the  Blind." 

We  will  not  anticipate  with  further  detail,  the  me- 


150  BEAUTIES    OF   THE    BLIND. 

moirs  of  her  life,  with  wliich  we  liope  she  will  at  some 
time  favor  the  public.  A  true  history  of  iier  trials 
and  triumphs,  in  her  own  ma<^ic  style,  would  stimu- 
late turciMy  those  under  similar  privations,  t(»  shake 
otf  the  fetters  of  dependence,  and  grapple  success- 
fully with  the  difficulties  of  their  situation. 

The  following  is  an  example  of  her  composition, 
which,  in  point  of  majesty  and  sublimity  of  thought, 
we  think,  is  seldom  excelled  in  the  English  lan- 
guage : 


PRAYER  TO  LIGHT. 

Oh,  holy  light  1  thou  art  old  as  the  look  of  God, 
and  eternal  as  his  breath.  The  angels  were  rocked 
in  thy  lap,  and  their  infant  smiles  were  brightened 
by  thee.  Creation  is  in  thy  memory  ;  by  thy  torch 
the  throne  of  Jehovah  was  set,  and  thy  hand  bur- 
nished the  myriad  stars  that  glitter  in  his  crown. 
Worlds,  new  from  His  omnipotent  hand,  were  sprin- 
kled with  beams  from  thy  baptismal  font.  At  thy 
golden  urn,  pale  Luna  comes  to  fill  her  silver  horn, 
and  Saturn  bathes  his  sky-girt  rings  ;  Jupiter  lights 
his  waning  moons,  and  Yenus  dips  her  queenlj'^  robes 
anew.  Thy  fountains  are  shoreless  as  the  ocean  of 
heavenly  love ;  thy  center  is  everywhere,  and  thy 
bou!idary  no  power  has  marked.  Thy  beams  gild  the 
illimitable  fields  of  space,  and  gladden  the  farthest 
verge  of  the  universe.  The.  glories  of  the  seventh 
heaven  are  open  to  thy  gaze,  and  thy  glare  is  felt  in 


MK8.    8.    H.    DEKROYFT.  J  61 

the  woes  of  lowest  Erebus.  The  sealed  books  of 
heaven  by  thee  are  read,  and  thine  eye,  like  the  In- 
finite, can  pierce  the  dark  vail  of  the  future,  and 
glance  backward  through  the  mystic  cycles  of  the 
past.  Thy  touch  gives  the  lily  its  whiteness,  the  rose 
its  tint,  and  thy  kindling  ray  makes  the  diamond's 
light ;  thy  beams  are  mighty  as  the  power  that  binds 
the  spheres  ;  tliou  canst  cliange  the  sleety  winds  to 
soothing  zephyrs,  and  thou  canst  melt  the  icy  moun- 
tains of  the  poles  to  gentle  rains  and  dewy  vapors. 
The  granite  rocks  of  the  hills  are  upturned  by  thee, 
volcanoes  burst,  islands  sink  and  rise,  rivers  roll,  and 
oceans  swell  at  thy  look  of  command.  And  oh,  thou 
monarch  of  the  skies,  bead  now  thy  bow  of  millioned 
arrows,  and  pierce,  if  thou  canst,  this  darkness  that 
thrice  twelve  moons  has  bound  me.  Burst  now  thine 
emerald  gates,  O  morn,  and  let  thy  dawning  come. 
My  eyes  roll  in  vain  to  find  thee,  and  my  soul  is 
weary  of  this  interminable  gloom.  My  heart  is  but 
the  tomb  of  blighted  hopes,  and  all  the  misery  of 
feelings  unemployed,  has  settled  on  me.  I  am  mis- 
fortune's child,  and  sorrow  long  since  marked  me  for 
her  own. 


MISS  FRANCES  BROWK 

Though  this  fair  world  so  radiant  with  light. 

To  thee,  lay  siirouded  in  perpetual  night ; 

CreaiH-e  Genius,  conscious  of  her  power, 

Frar>dd  thee  a  world  with  mountain,  tree  and  flpwer, 

Apd  glassy  lake,  reflecting  from  its  breast 

The  mirrored  forms  that  there  in  beauty  rest* 

And  e'en  the  muse,  obedient  ta  thy  call. 

Kindled  thy  fancy,  and  inspired  thy  soul 

To  rapturous  song,  of  love  and  story  old. 

Of  memocies  faded,  and  of  hearts  grown  cold 

For  the  particulars  of  the  life  of  Miss  Brown,  we 
are  chiefly  indebted  to  the  celebrated  Dr.  Kltto,  au- 
thor of  "  The  Lost  Senses."  She  was  bom,  it  appears, 
in  1816,  at  Stranolar,  in  the  county  of  Donegal. 
There  is  little  known  of  her  parents,  except  that  hei 
father  was  postmaster  of  the  village.  When  but 
eighteen  months  old,  she  lost  her  sight  by  the  small- 
pox. And  in  consequence  of  this  misfortune,  her 
early  education,  like  tha'!;  of  most  blind  children,  was 
neglected.  It  is  commonly  supposed,  that  blind  per- 
sons can  derive- no  benefit  from  the  ordinary  methods 
of  instruction  used  at  common  schools.  This  we  think 
is- a  mistaken  notion.  It  is  true,  a  blind  child  cannot 
perform  an  example  in  arithmetic  on  a  common  slate, 
or  demonstrate  a  geometrical  figure  drawn  upon  the 


FRANCES   BBOWN.  153 

• 

olack-board,  but  he  may  recite  in  the  classes  oi  men- 
tal arithmetic,  and  receive  oral  lessons  from  the 
teacher  in  geography,  grammar,  and,  in  short,  all  the 
branches  usually  taught  at  common  schools. 

Our  young  author  not  only  gained  a  knowledge  of 
the  rudiments  of  grammar,  but  added  a  considerable 
stock  of  words  to  her  vocabulary,  by  hearing  her 
brothers  and  sisters  con  aloud  iheir  lessons.  From 
her  earliest  years,  Frances  Brown  evinced  a  love  for 
poetry.  At  seven  years  of  age  she  made  her  first  at- 
tempt at  writing  verse,  by  throwing  into  rhyme  the 
Lord's  Prayer.  Up  to  this  time  a  few  psalms,  of  the 
Scotch  version,  Watts'  Divine  Songs,  and  some  old 
country  songs,  formed  the  extent  of  her  poetical 
knowledge.  As  she  grew  older,  her  memory  was 
strengthened  by  committing  pieces  of  poetry  from  the 
provincial  newspapers.  These  furnished  rich  food 
for  the  mind,  and  were  no  doubt  well  digested,  as 
she  was  in  the  habit  of  frequently  repeating  them  for 
her  own  amusement-  As  books  were  at  this  time 
scarce  in  her  remote  neighborhood,  Susan  Gray,  The 
Gentle  Shepherd,  Mungo  Park's  Travels,  Robinson 
Crusoe,  were  among  the  first  of  her  book  acquain- 
tances. "  I  have  often  heard  them  read  by  my  rela- 
tives," says  she,  "  and  remember  to  have  taken  a 
strange  delight  in  them,  when,  I  am  sure,  they  were 
not  half  understood."  These  soon  created  in  her  a 
passion  for  fiction  and  romance  ;  a  taste  by  no  means 
commendable,  but  much  preferable,  we  thjnk,  to  that 
distaste  for  all  reading  which  dry  history  is  likely  to 
G* 


154  BEAUTIES    OF   THE    BLIND. 

cultivate,  if  placed  too  soon  in  the  hands  of  young 
persons.  By  this  we  would  not  be  understood  to  en- 
courage novel  reading,  yet  ratlie.r  such  than  none  at 
all.  Furnish  the  mind  with  food  of  some  kind,  or  it 
will  devour  its  own  puny  offspring,  and  at  last  feed 
upon  its  own  vitality.  One  who  has  been  blind  from 
infancy,  will  be  likely  to  suffer  most  from  such 
neglect. 

When  the  mind  cannot  look  out  upon  God's  perfect 
work,  or  be  permitted  to  catch  one  glance  at  the  book 
of  nature  thrown  open  to  the  view  of  kindre^l  minds, 
yet  feel8  an  inward  consciousness  of  powers  it  caniiot 
put  forth,  of  inspirations  and  desires  it  can  never  grat- 
ify, when  it  has  tried  in  vain  to  break  its  prison  house 
and  roam  at  large  over  the  broad  field  of  nature,  its 
gaze  is  turned  inward  upon  itself ;  but  only  sees,  by 
the  faint  light  of  its  expiring  energies,  its  own  moral 
deformity.  Our  authoress,  however,  did  not  thus  pine 
under  her  afflictions.  Through  the  sunshine  of  her 
young  heart  floated  many  a  bright  vision.  Relating 
in  part  her  early  history,  she  says :  "  It  was  a  great 
day  for  me  when  the  first  of  Sir  Walter  Scott's  works 
fell  into  my  hands.  It  was  the  '  Heart  of  Mid  Lothi- 
an,' and  was  lent  me  by  a  friend,  whose  family  were 
rather  better  provided  with  books  than  most  in  our 
neighborhood.  My  delight  in  the  work  was  very 
great,  even  then  ;  and  I  contrived  by  means  of  bor- 
rowing, to  get  acquainted  in  a  very  short  time  witl- 
the  greater  part  of  the  works  of  its  illustrious  author, 
for  works  of  fiction,  about  this  time,  occupied  all  my 

f 


FRANCES    BROWN.  156 

thoughts.  I  had  a  curious  mode  of  impressing  on 
mj  memory  wlvat  had  been  read,  namely,  lying  awake, 
in  the  silence  of  the  night,  and  repeating  it  all  over 
to  myself.  To  that  habit  I  probably  owe  the  extreme 
tenacity  of  memory  which  I  now  possess ;  but,  like 
all  other  good  things,  it  had  its  attendant  evil,  for  I 
have  often  thought  it  curious  that,  whilst  I  never  for- 
got any  scrap  of  knowledge  collected,  however  small, 
yet  the  common  events  of  daily  life  slip  from  my 
memory  so  quickly,  that  I  can  scarcely  find  anything 
ngain  which  I  have  once  laid  aside." 

Miss  Brown  had  now  reached  a  period  in  life,  when 
dreams  of  love  and  romance  lose  much  of  their  inter- 
est, and  fancies  gradually  give  place  to  facts.  His- 
torical novels  were  feid  aside,  and  the  more  wonderful 
romance  of  history  itself  now  attracted  her  attention. 
Baine's  History  of  the  French  War,  and  Hume's  His- 
tory of  England,  were  read  by  her  with  avidity. 
About  this  time,  a  friend  presented  her  with  that  vo- 
b^minous  work,  the  "  Universal  History,"  in  twenty- 
two  volumes,  which  made  her  acquainted  with  the 
histories  of  Greece  and  Rome,  and  other  ancient  na- 
tions. The  fund  of  information  thus  acquired  was 
afterwards  increased  from  many  other  sources.  These 
historical  studies  making  a  knowledge  of  geography 
necessary,  she  began  to  acquire  this  in  the  mod^  al- 
ready indicated,  viz.  by  learning  the  lessons  of  her 
brothers  and  sisters.  In  order  to  obtain  a  more  per- 
fect knowledge  of  the  relative  situation  of  distant 
places,  she  sometimes  requested  a  friend  who  could 


166  BEAUTIES   OF  THE   BLIND. 

trace  maps,  to  place  her  finger  upon  some  well  known 
^ot,  the  situation  of  which  was  already  known  to  her, 
and  tlien  conduct  the  fingers  of  the  other  hand  to  any- 
place in  the  map,  the  situation  of  which  she  desired 
to  ascertain.  By  this  plan,  having  previously  known 
how  the  cardinal  points  were  placed,  she  was  enabled 
to  form  a  tolerably  correct  idea,  not  only  of  the 
boundaries  and  magnitude  of  various  countries,  but 
also  of  the  courses  of  rivers  and  mountain  chains. 
In  her  eagerness  to  gain  a  knowledge  of  geography, 
it  seems  rather  surprising  that  the  present  plan  of 
constructing  maps  for  the  blind,  did  not  suggest  it- 
self to  her  mind.  Had  some  friend  glued  upon  her 
map  tangible  lines,  marking  the  boundaries  of  the 
difi'erent  divisions,  and  by  other  Elevations  indicatin^^ 
the  coui-se  of  rivers,  mountain  chaina,  and  the  locali- 
ties of  principal  towns,  it  would  have  enabled  her  to 
pursue  the  study  of  geography  with  little  or  no  in 
convenience. 

It  may  be  well  to  remark  here,  in  this  connectiou 
(and  perhaps  be  better  understood,)  that  blind  per- 
sons find  no  difficulty  in  retaining  images,  or  ideas  of 
the  form  of  bodies,  if  their  true  shape  has  been  once 
positively  ascertained  by  the  sense  of  touch.  Hence, 
it  will  be  seen  that  ideal  maps  and  diagrams  may  be 
drawn  by  them,  and  impressed  upon  the  meinory  with 
all  their  lines  and  angles  distinctly  marked.  Though 
these  images  present  no  difiterences  in  color,  thero 
are  marked  differences  in  the  smoothness,  or  asperity, 
of  their  surfaces.     Tliose  who  can  only  retain  the  im- 


FRA-NOKS    KROWN.  157 

pression  or  objects  they  have  once  seen,  by  their  pe- 
culiar color,  or,  in  other  words,  by  the  contrast  of 
light  and  shade,  will  liardly  understand  how  it  is  that 
one  who  has  never  seen  color,  and  consequently  can 
have  no  conceptions  of  the  outlines  of  objects  as  they 
appear  to  the  eye,  caji  picture  to  himself  the  relative 
distance  of  bodies,  their  magnitude  and  diiferent  pro- 
portions, and  more  particularly,  bodies  in  motion. 
At  a  casual  glance  at  the  subject,  it  no  doubt  appears 
wonderful  that  a  person  entirely  depending  upon  the 
sense  of  touch,  should  be  able  to  form  any  idea  of  ex- 
tent beyond  the  space  he  occupies.  But  it  should  be 
remembered  that  all  knowledge  was  first  gained  by 
repeated  experiment.  Some  writers  on  optics  claim 
that  the  infant  first  sees  every  object  inverted ;  but 
that  the  delusion  vanishes  when  he  has  once  ascer- 
tained by  the  sense  of  touch  their  true  position. 
Whether  this  be  true  or  not,  it  is  certain  that  the 
most  experienced  observer  cannot  always  determine 
the  true  distances  of  objects  from  the  eye  by  their 
apparent  magnitude.  Hence,  in  order  to  gain  a 
knowledge  of  extent,  figure,  and  the  real  magnitude 
©f  bodies,  a  series  of  experiments  seem  requisite  for 
the  seeing,  as  well  as  for  the  blind. 

By  a  few  of  Miss  Brown's  poems,  which  we  pro- 
pose to  subjoin  presently,  the  reader  will  be  able  to 
judge  whether  their  learned  authoress  was  ignorant 
of  the  scenes  she  so  vividly  describes.  Although  she 
could  have  retained  no  recollection  of  visible  objects, 
ber  imagery  is  perfect,  and  her  descriptions  by  no 


158  BEA*nTE8  OF  THK   -^MND. 

means  deficient  in  warrntli  and  color.  Her  frst  po- 
etical efforts  were  but  feel)le  imitations  of  everything 
she  knew — from  the  Psalms  to  Gray's  Elegy.  De- 
pending upon  the  eyes  of  others  for  much  of  her  in- 
formation, Miss  Brown  had,  up  to  this  time,  been 
able  only  to  manage  the  lighter/kinds  of  reading,  by 
the  aid  of  her  young  relatives,  who  took  great  pleas- 
ure in  reading  to  her  such  publications  as  most  amused 
and  interested  themselves.  As  this  kind  of  reading 
did  not  greatly  elevate  her  standard  of  taste,  her  pow- 
ers of  invention,  for  a  time,  kept  pace  with  her  im- 
perfect ideas  of  poetry. 

In  a  few  years  lier  compositions  had  accumulated 
into  a  considerable  manuscript.  But  having  read 
the  poems  of  Burns,  and  Pope's  translation  of  Ho- 
mer's Iliad,  she  became  so  disgusted  with  her  own 
feeble  attempts  at  versification,  that  in  a  fit  of  sover- 
eign contempt  she  committed  her  whole  manuscript 
to  the  flames,  and  resolved  never  again  to  insult  the 
muses.  In  this  resolution  she  persevered  for  several 
years.  Byron's  Childe  Harold  next  made  a  deep  im- 
pression on  her  mind,  and  served  greatly  to  strengthen 
her  resolution.  Her  strong  inclinations,  however,  for 
writing  verse,  together  w^ith  the  influence  of  her 
friends,  at  length  induced  her  to  break  the  rash  prom- 
ise she  had  made,  and  become  a  contributor  to  the 
"Irish  Penny  Journal."  In  1841  she  sent  a  few 
small  poems  to  the  editor  of  the  London  Athenemu 
with  the  offer  of  further  contributions,  and  solicitea 
that  a  copy  of  the  journal  might  be  sent  to  her    o 


FRANCES   BKOWN.  159 

return.  After  waiting  in  anxious  suspense  some  ac- 
knowledgment of  her  voluntary  contributions,  she  had 
nearly  given  up  as  lost  her  long  cherished  object, 
when  to  her  great  delight,  several  numbers  of  the 
journal  arrived.  This  encouragement  gave  a  new 
impulse  to  her  efforts  ;  and  with  it  dawned  a  brighter 
day  in  her  life  than  had  hitherto  cheered  her  solitary 
way,  lighting  up  a  fairer  prospect  in  the  future  than 
she  liad  yet  anticipated. 

From  that  time  Miss  Brown's  writings  have  been 
more  before  the  public,  and  never  failed  to  attract 
favorable  notice.  She  is  at  present  well  known  in 
the  literary  world  as  an  authoress  of  some  very  cred- 
itable verse.  Her  long  poern,  "The  Starof  Attigher," 
is  thought  by  some  less  meritorious  than  many  of  her 
smaller  productions.  Her  style  is  brilliant,  and  her 
poems  abound  in  metaphor.  If  they  have  a  faiilt,  it 
is  the  sudden  transition  from  one  simile  to  another, 
illustrating  the  same  idea,  somewhat  analagous  to  a 
rapid  modulation  in  musical  composition  :  a  new  key 
is  introduced,  before  the  ear  is  prepared  for  a  new 
succession  of  sounds.  Her  themes,  however,  are  hap- 
pily chosen,  and  the  construction  of  her  verse  is  flu- 
ent and  musical. 

To  those  who  see,  like  herself,  by  the  light  which 
fancy  kindles  in  the  imagination,  creating  for  the 
blind  an  artificial  day,  her  poems  cannot  fail  to  be 
peculiarly  attractive.  It  is  most  remarkable  that,  in 
her  whole  collection  of  poems,  there  is  not  a  word 
about  blindness.     The  most  probable  reason  that  we 


160  BEAUTIES    OF   TOE    BLIND. 

can  assign  for  this  is,  Miss  Brown  did  not  wish  the 
sympathy  which  her  supposed  unhappy  condition 
might  awaken,  either  to  enhance  or  diininisli  the  in- 
trinsic vahie  of  her  productions.  Sympathy  is  like 
an  image  reflected  from  a  mirror,  it  only  remains 
while  the  ohject  is  present.  It  is  but  an  echo  of  suf- 
fering, and  seldom  more  than  a  faint  response  from 
light  hearts  but  imperfectly  tuned,  to  the  deep,  sad 
tones  of  a  lonely  and  desolate  heart.  Another  indu- 
cing motive  was,  we  doubt  not,  her  sad  experience 
of  the  fact,  that  any  allusion  to  her  misfortune  would 
carry  with  it,  to  the  minds  of  some,  an  idea  of  moral, 
physical,  and  intellectual  deterioration.  Although 
many  think  in  the  dark  with  their  eyes  open,  their 
thoughts  are  not  supposed  to  gather  darkness  ;  or  if 
they  wish  to  shut  out  intruding  objects  by  closing 
their,  eyes  in  the  day  time,  the  torch  of  reason  and 
the  fire  of  genius  are  supposed  to  give  luster  to  their 
imaginings.  But  when  one  is  compelled  to  gather 
his  thoughts  in  the  dark,  there  is  great  danger,  it  is 
thought,  that  the  shades  of  night  will  even  gather 
around  his  mid-day  scenes.  "  Blindness  from  in- 
fancy," says  Dr.  Kitto,  "  however  deeply  to  be  la 
mented  by  those  who  enjoy  sight  and  know  the  sources 
of  pleasure  and  usefulness  which  it  opens,  can  afford 
few  materials  of  sorrow  to  one  who  knows  not  this, 
and  can  scarcely  be  practically  aware  that  there  is 
any  happier  physical  condition  than  her  own." 

There  are  few  perhaps  better  able  to  estimate  the 
loss  of  sight  and  the  many  inconveniences  to  whicL 


FRANCES   BROVITN.  Iffl 

such  a  loss  exposes  one,  than  the  learned  author  we 
have  quoted,  having  himself  been  deaf  from  a  very 
early  period  of  life.  But  our  own  experience  leads 
us  to  a  conclusion  very  different  from  his.  It  is  not 
strictly  true  that  persons  born  blind  are  so  blissfully 
ignorant  of  their  own  misfortune.  It  is  quite  as  rea- 
sonable to  suppose,  that  one  who  has  never  enjoyed 
the  use  of  his  legs,  yet  observes  how  others  value 
them,  should  be  ignorant  of  the  inconvenience  to 
which  he  is  exposed,  in  pushing  himself  from  place 
to  place  by  the  mere  strength  of  his  arms.  Though 
on  the  principle  of  the  lever,  what  he  loses  in  velo- 
city he  gains  in  power,  (since  in  the  absence  of  legs 
his  arms  are  made  to  subserve  a  double  purpose, 
thereby  acquiring  great  strength  and  dexterity,)  yet 
to  him  this  fact  is  not  so  consoling  after  all.  The  il- 
lustration we  have  used,  however,  is  too  strong  for 
the  reality ;  for  of  the  two  physical  defects,  were  it 
left  to  our  own  choice,  we  would  gladly  choose  the 
former.  The  dull  soul  that  looks  coldly  out  on  the 
bright  aspect  of  things,  upon  all  the  beauties  of  the 
visible  universe,  and  feels  no  chord  vibrate  with  the 
harmony  of  nature,  no  generous  response  to  her 
theme  of  universal  praise,  no  deep  and  fervent  emo- 
tions of  love,  nor  even  rises  above  the  mean  and  sordid 
things  of  earth,  can  have  no  sympathy  with  a  spirit 
fettered  and  immured  in  its  dark  prison-house,  ever 
wishing  to  pierce  the  impenetrable  vail  of  darkness, 
:f  only  to  admit  one  ray  of  heaven's  pure  light.  There 
are  some  who  never  look  up ;  whose  admiration  never 

11 


162  BEAUTIES   OF  THE   BLIND 

soars  above  the  pile  of  glittering  dust  before  them  ; 
who  imagine  they  read  by  its  false  light  God's  whole 
revelation  to  man,  and  by  its  duration* they  compute 
their  own  immortality.  True,  the  gold  does  not  rust, 
but  their  reasons  will ;  it  will  still  shine,  though  the 
light  of  intelligence  has  failed  from  their  eyes.  To 
such,  the  fair  face  of  nature  soon  grows  wan  and  fa- 
miliar ;  and  to  such  only  does  her  book  present  a 
universal  blank. 

From  Frances  Brown's  volume  of  collected  poems, 
we  have  made  the  following  selections  as  specimens 
of  her  style : 


THE  PAINTER'S  LOVE. 

The  summer  day  had  reach'd  its  cahn  decline, 
When  the  young  painter's  chosen  task  was  done- 
At  a  low  lattice,  wreathed  with  rose  and  vine, 
And  open  to  the  bright  descending  sun. 
And  ancient  Alps,  whose  everlasting  snows 
And  forests  round  that  lonely  valley  rose  ; 
Yet  lovely  was  the  brow,  and  bright  the  hair 
His  pencil  pictured — for  an  Alpine  maid. 
In  blooming  beauty,  sat  before  him  there  , 
And  well  had  the  young  artist's  hand  portray'd 
The  daughter  of  the  south,  whose  youthful  prime 
Was  bright  as  noontide  in  her  native  clime. 
Percliance  the  maiden  dr  jamt  not  that  amid 
The  changeful  fortune  of  his  after  days. 
That  early-treasured  image  should  abide — 
The  onl}-  landmark  left  for  memory's  gaze. 
Perchance  the  wanderer  deemed  his  path  too  dim 
IkJid  cold  for  such  bright  eyes  to  shine  on  him  ; 


FEABTCES   BROWN.  1  6S 

For  silently  he  went  liis  lonelj'^  way^ 

And  like  the  currents  of  fur  parted  streams, 

Their  years  flow'd  on  ;  but  many  a  nigllt  and  day 

Tlie  same  green  valley  rose  upon  tlieir  dreams— 

To  him  willi  her  young  smile  and  pres'enee  bright— 

To  hc-r  with  the  old  home-fire's  love  and  liglit; 

For  slie,  too,  wander'd  from  its  pleasant  bowei'S, 

To  share  a  prouder  home  and  nobler  name 

In  a  far  land.     And  on  liis  after  hours 

The  golden  glow  of  Art's  bright  honors  eamo ; 

And  time  roH'd  on,  but  found  liim  still  alone. 

And  true  to  the  first  love  his  heart  had  known 

At  length,  within  a  proud  and  pictured  hall 

He  stood,  amid  a  noble  throng,  and  gazed 

Upon  one  lovely  form — which  seem'd  of  all 

Most  loved  of  sages,  and  by  poets  praised 

In  many  a  song — but  to  the  paiutei-'s  view 

It  had  a  sf>ell  of  pownr  they  never  knew ; 

For  many  an  eye  of  light  and  form  of  grace 

Had  claim'd  his  magic  pencil  since  its  skill 

To  canvas  gave  the  beauty  of  that  face : 

But  in  his  memory  it  was  brighter  still ; 

And  he  had  given  life's  wealth  to  meet  again 

The  sunny  smile  that  shone  upon  him  then. 

There  came  a  noble  matron  to  his  side. 

With  mourning  robes  and  darkly-flowing  vail, 

Yet  much  of  the  world's  splendor  and  its  pride, 

Around  long-silver'd  hair  and  visage  pale; 

But  at  one  glance — though  changed  and  dim,  thai  «y« 

Lit  up  the  deserts  of  his  memory. 

It  brought  before  his  sight  the  vale  of  vines. 

The  rose-wreath'd  lattice,  and  the  sunset  sky. 

Far  gleaming  through  the  old  majestic  pines 

Tliat  clothed  the  Alpine  steeps  so  gloriously 

Aud,  oh  I  was  this  the  face  his  art  portray'd, 

'^ong,  long  ago  beneath  their  peaceful  shade  I 

The  star  liis  soul  had  worship'd  through  the  pa8t» 

With  all  the  fervor  of  untutor'd  truth — 

Kl>  early  loved  and  longed  for — who  at  last 


164  BhADTISa   OF   THE   BLIND. 

Gazed  on  that  glorious  shadow  of  her  youth  I 

And  youth  had  perish'd  from  her — but  there  atay'd 

With  it  a  changeless  bloom  that  could  not  fade  ; 

The  winters  had  not  breath'd  upon  its  prime — 

For  life's  first  roses  hung  around  it  now, 

Unblanch'd  by  all  the  waves  and  storms  of  time 

That  swept  such  beauty  from  the  living  brow — 

And  "withering  age,  and  deeply -cankering  care. 

Had  left  no  traces  of  their  footsteps  there. 

The  loved  one  and  the  lover  both  were  changed, 

Far  changed  in  fortune,  and  perchance  in  soul ; 

And  they  whose  footsteps  fate  so  far  estranged. 

At  length  were  guided  to  the  same  bright  goal 

Of  early  hopes :  but,  oh,  to  be  once  more 

As  they  had  been  in  that  sweet  vale  of  yore ' 

They  cast  upon  each  other  one  long  look  ;  ^^ 

And  hers  was  sad — ^it  might  be  with  regret  ^^' 

For  all  the  true  love  lost ;  but  his  partook 

Of  woe,  whose  worldless  depth  was  darker  yet^ 

For  life  had  lost  its  beacon,  and  that  brow 

Could  be  no  more  his  star  of  promise  now. 

And  once  again  the  artist  silently 

Pass'd  from  her  presence.     But,  from  that  sad  hour, 

As  though  he  feared  its  fading  heart  and  eye. 

Forsook  all  mortal  beauty  for  the  power 

Of  deathless  art.     By  far  and  fabled  streams 

He  sought  the  sculptured  forms  of  classic  dreams. 

And  pictured  glories  of  Italian  lore, 

But  xooKcd  on  living  beauty  never  more. 

"  Miss  Brown,"  says  the  learned  Dr.  Kitt'' ,  "  uses 
shade  and  shadow  as  synonymous.  Of  sh/^ae  she 
could  have  an  idea,  from  having  herself,  when  under 
a  tree,  realized  the  consciousness  of  being  Bcreened 
from  the  warmtli  of  the  sun ;  but  of  shadow,  3-3  dis- 
tinct from  shade,  she  does  not  ap^^ear  to  have  had  a 
idea,  for  whenever  she  does  use  it,  bhade  is  meant.' 


FHAN0B8  BROWN.  165 

One  of  the  present  writers,  who  has  been  blind  fron 
birth,  adds,  "I  have  always  had  a  notion  of  some 
difference  between  -  shade  and  shadow.  Shade  ap- 
pears to  me  much  darker,  and  more  confused  than 
shadow.  Shade  has  no  particular  form,  while  shadow 
takes  the  shape  of  the  object  by  which  it  is  cast." 
We  see  no  reason  why  Miss  Brown  should  have  had 
a  less  distinct  idea  of  the  difierence  between  shade 
and  shadow  than  of  the  difference  in  the  two  primary 
colors,  yellow  and  orange.  "We  are  not  willing  to 
believe  that  she  was  totally  ignorant  of  the  import 
of  the  words  shade  and  shadow.  We  give,  however, 
a  brief  extract  from  her  "  Lessons  of  the  Louvre," 
and  leave  the  reader  to  judge  for  himself: 

"So  spako  the  sun  of  Gallic  fame, 

When,  on  his  conquering  noon, 
No  dimly  distant  shadow  came 

Of  clouds  to  burst  too  soon — 
But  o'er  the  crown'd  and  laurel'd  brow 

There  passed  a  shade  the  while, 
Tliat  dimm'd  the  dark  eye's  haughty  glow. 

And  quench'd  the  scornful  smile." 


THE  IJLND  OF  LIBERTY 

Where  may  that  glorious  land  be  found 
Which  countless  bards  have  sung — 

The  chosen  of  the  nations,  crown'd 
With  fame,  forever  young  f 


J6d  BEAUTIES   OF  THE  BLIUD.    • 

A  fame  that  fill'd  the  Grecian  sea, 
And  i-aiig  througli  Roman  skies; 

O !  ever  bright  that  land  must  be. — 
But  tell  us  where  it  lies  I 

Tlie  rose-crown'd  su^pier  ceaseless  shiuw* 

On  orient  realms  of  gold. 
The  holy  place  of  early  shrines, 

The  fair,  the  famed  of  old  ; 
But  ages  on  their  flood  have  borne 

Away  the  loftiest  fane. 
Yet  left  upon  the  lands  of  Morn 

A  still  unbroken  chain. 

The  West — O  !  wide  its  forests  wave, 

But  long  the  setting  sun 
Hath  blusli'd  to  see  the  toiling  slave 

On  fields  for  freedom  won  ; 
Still  mighty  iu  their  seaward  path 

Roll  on  the  ancient  floods, 
ThaA  miss  the  brethren  of  their  youth, 

Tne  dwellers  of  the  woods. 

The  North  with  misty  mantle  lowers 

On  nations  wise  and  brave. 
Who  gather  from  a  thousand  shores 

The  wealth  of  land  and  wave  ; 
But  stains  are  on  their  boasted  store — 

Though  Freedom's  shrine  be  fair, 
Tis  empty — or  they  bow  before 

A  gilded  idol  there  I 

The  South — the  cloudless  South — expanda 
•^  Her  deserts  to  the  day, 

Where  rove  those  yet  uncouquer'd  bonds, 

AVlio  own  no  scepter's  sway  ; 
But  wlurefore  is  the  iron  with 

Our  golden  image  blent  ? 
For,  see,  the  harem-bars  reach  forth 

Into  the  Arab's  tent. 


FRANCES   BROWN.  167 

O I  Earth  hath  many  a  region  bright^ 

And  Ocean  many  an  isle — 
But  \phere  on  mortals  shines  the  light 

Of  Freedom's  cloudless  smile  i 
The  search  is  vain  !     From  human  skies 

Tlie  angel  early  fled— 
Our  only  land  of  freedom  is 

The  country  of  the  dead  > 


MISS  FRANCES  JANE  CROSBV, 

AN    AMERICAN   AUTHORESS. 

**Ti8  bright  where'er  the  heart  is; 
Nor  chain  nor  dungeon  dim, 
May  check  the  mind's  aspirings, 
The  ipirit's  pealing  hymn. 
Tlie  heart  gives  life  its  beauty 

Its  glory  and  its  power, —  ^flj 

'Tis  sunlight  to  its  rippling  stream,  ^ 

And  soft  dew  to  its  flower." 

The  poems  of  this  blind  lady  have  been  so  much 
and  so  justly  admired  by  all  who  have  read  tbem, 
and  have  so  frequently  drawn  from  the. pen  of  re- 
viewers acknowledgments  of  their  superior  exc^ellence, 
almost  amounting  to  adulation,  that  a  few  glimpses 
of  her  early  history  will  be  received  no  doubt  by  our 
readers  with  interest.  To  her  assiduous  efforts  as  a 
teacher,  the  Institution  for  the  Blind  at  New  York, 
with  which  she  has  long  been  connected,  owes  much 
of  its  present  prosperity  ;  and  to  her  aid  in  many 
other  respects  it  is,  no  doubt,  indebted  for  its  world- 
wide reputation. 

No  one  can  read  her  poems  and  not  be  struck  with 
the  simple  beauty  and  elegance  of  her  style,  the  cor- 
rectness of  her  imagery,  and  her  giddy  flights  of 


FRANCES   JANE   CK08BT.  1G9 

fancy,  as  may  be  seen  in  the  poem  entitled,  *' Yisit 
to  a  Fixed  Star."  And  more  particularly  is  she  happy 
in  the  choice  of  enplionic  words,  and  in  the  construe 
tion  of  musical  and  well  rounded  sentences,  which  is 
said  to  be  a  characteristic  of  the  blind.  In  the  pre- 
face of  her  first  work,  the  writer  of  it  observes :  "  That 
one  who,  from  the  earliest  period  of  infancy,  has  been 
deprived  of  sight,  and  whose  entire  knowledge  of  ex- 
ternal objects,  from  which  to  paint  with  the  imagina- 
tive pencil,  has  been  derived  from  oral  description, 
should  be  able  thus  faithfully  to  present  scenes  from 
nature,  and  in  colors  so  vivid  and  true  as  to  render 
"li^  reader  incredulous  as  to  the  originality  of  the 
production,  is  a  subject  of  sarprise,  as  well  as  ad- 
miration. 

As  an  evidence  that  Miss  Crosby  is  in  some  degree 
a  reasoner,  as  well  as  poetess,  we  copy  the  following 
lines  from  her  last  work,  entitled,  "Monterey  and 
other  Poems : " 


TIME  CHRONICLED  IN  A  SKULL. 

"W  ny  should  I  fear  it  ?     Once  the  pulse  of  life 

Tliiobbed  in  these  temples,  pale  and  bloodless  now  f 

Here  reason  sat  enthroned,  its  empire  held 

O'er  infant  thought  and  thoui^lit  to  action  grown 

A  flashing  eye  in  varying  glances  told 

Tlie  secret  workings  of  immortal  mind. 

The  vital  spark  hath  fled,  and  hope,  and  love. 

*  Thoughts  sn^ested  to  our  authoress  on  placing  her  watch  in  a  huinao  akoll 
t.  f  btob  was  one  day  pat  into  tier  hands, 

H 


170  BEAUmS   OF  THE   BLIND. 

A.nd  hatred — all  are  buried  in  the  dust : 

Forgotten,  like  the  cold  and  senseless  clay 

That  lies  before  me:  such  is  human  life. 

Mortals,  behold  and  read^your  destiny  ! 

Faithful  chronometer,  which  now  I  place 

Within  this  cavity,  with  faltei-ing  hand. 

Tell  me  how  swift  the  passing  moments  fly  ! 

I  liear  tliy  voice,  and  tremble  as  I  hear ; 

For  time  and  death  are  blended — awful  thought 

Death  claims  his  victim.     Time  that  once  was  hia, 

Bearing  him  onward  with  resistless  power, 

Must  in  a  vast  eternity  be  lost. 

Eternity  I  duration  infinite  1 

Ages  and  ages  roll  unnumbered  there  ; 

From  star  to  star  the  soul  enraptured  flies, 

Drinking  new  beauties,  transports  ever  new. 

Casting  its  crown  of  glory  at  His  feet. 

Whose  word  from  chaos  to  existence  called 

A  universe;  whose  hand  omnipotent 

Controls  the  storms  that  wake  the  boundless  deep» 

"And  guides  the  planet  in  its  wild  career." 

The  novel  circumstance  which  formed  the  subject 
of  this  poem,  though  trivial  in  itself,  was  well  calcu- 
lated to  inspire  our  authoress  with  deep  and  sublime 
emotions,  and  at  once  suggest  to  her  a  train  of  rael 
ancholy  reflections. 

"Why  should  I  fear  it  f     Once  the  pulse  of  life 
Throbbed  in  these  temples,  pale  and  bloodless  now.*' 

What  terror  must  she  have  felt,  on  placing  her 
hands  on  the  dry,  hard  bones,  which  once  formed  the 
prison-house  of  an  immortal  mind  !  How  reluctantly 
must  she  have  placed  her  watch  in  the  dark  cavity 
Inhere  once  sat  enthroned  a  reason,  an  ever-active  in- 


FRANCES   JANE   CROSBY.  171 

telligence,  that  thinks,  that  wills,  that  knows,  and  yet 
knows  not  itself,  or  its  own  destiny  !• 

"  I  hear  thy  voice,  and  tremble  as  I  hear ; 

For  time  and  death  are  blended — awful  thought  I " 

Among  her  many  creditable  performances,  this 
poem  unquestionably  excels  in  point  of  what  we 
conceive  to  bo  true  merit.  It  certainly  stands  unri- 
valed by  any  modern  production  of  the  blind  we 
have  yet  seen.  It  not  only  possesses  many  intrinsic 
beauties,  but  discovers  in  the  writer  a  depth  of 
thought,  and  an  appreciation  of  the  sublime  truly 
surprising. 

Miss  Frances  Jane  Crosby,  an  61eve  of  the  ]^ew 
fork  Institution  for  the  Blind,  was  born  in  1820. 
At  the  early  age  of  six  weeks  she  lost  her  sight,  by  a 
tit  of  severe  illness.  Nor  was  this  her  only  misfor- 
tune. Losing  her  father  about  this  time,  and  her 
mother  being  left  in  indigent  circumstances,  scarcely 
able  to  provide  for  her  own  maintenance,  the  early 
education  of  her  sightless  daughter  was  entirely 
neglected. 

Her  unhappy  condition  at  this  period  we  cannot 
better  describe  than  she  herself  has  done  in  the 
ollowing : 

"  She  sat  beside  her  cottage  door, 
Her  brow  a  pensive  sadness  wore  ; 
And  while  she  listened  to  the  song 
That  issued  from  that  youthful  throng, 
Tlie  teai-s,  warm  gushing  on  her  cheek, 
Told  what  no  language  e'er  could  speak ; 


t78  BEAirnBS  of  tite  blind. 

While  their  young  hearts  were  light  and  gay, 

Tlie  hours  passed  heavily  away. 

A  mental  night  was  o'er  her  thrown, 

She  sat  dejected  and  alone.  . 

Yet,  no ;  a  mother's  accents  dear, 

Came  softly  on  that  blind  girl's  ear. 

While  all  were  lock'd  in  dreamy  sleep. 

That  mother  o'er  her  couch  would  weep. 

And  as  she  knelt  in  silence  there, 

Would  breath  to  God  her  fervent  prayer: 

•Tliat  he  all  merciful  and  mild. 

Would  bless  her  sightless,  only  child.' " 

This  is  a  sad  bnt  no  doubt  true  picture  of  her 
childhood.  Possessing  from  her  infancy  a  poetical 
temperament,  quick  perceptions,  and  a  sensitive  na- 
ture, she  perhaps  felt  more  deeply  her  privation. 
Tliis  is  not  the  case,  however,  with  all  blind  children ; 
their  inventive  genius  soon  suggests  methods  for 
joining  other  children  in  their  sports.  Parents  should 
be  careful  to  encourage  tlieir  little  sightless  cliarges, 
who  seem  to  them  so  helpless,  in  healthful  and  play- 
ful exercises ;  allow  them  to  run  at  will  about  the 
yards  where  they  are  not  exposed  to  danger,  and  de- 
vote at  least  a  small  portion  of  their  time  each  day 
to  their  mental  training.  In  this  way  they  would 
Boon  become  as  active  and  vigorous,  both  physically 
and  mentally,  as  seeing  children,  and  be  guilty  of 
quite  as  many  mischievous  pranks. 

Strange  notions  have  been  entertained,  by  writers 
of  all  ages,  in  relation  to  blindness.  Some  suppose 
it  to  be  not  only  the  greatest  calamity  that  can  befal 
one,  but  to  preclude  the  possibility  of  a  strong  and 


FRANCES   JANE   CROSBY.  l73 

vigorous  constitution.  As  an  instance,  we  offer  the 
following  from  the  Eneyck^pedia  Britanica  :  "  The 
sedentary  life  to  which  they  are  doomed,  relaxes  the 
frame,  and  subjects  them  to  all  the  disagreeable  sen- 
sations which  arise  from  dejection  of  spirits ;  hence 
the  most  feeble  exertions  create  lassitude  and  uneasi- 
ness, and  the  natural  tone  of  the  nervous  system,  de- 
stroyed by  inactivity,  exasperates  and  embitters  every 
disagreeable  impression."  This,  so  far  from  being 
true,  is  strikingly  at  variance  with  our  own  experi- 
ence and  numerous  observations.  The  educated 
blind  are  commonly  as  cheerful  as  the  seeing,  and 
apparently  much  happiei  *;han  the  deaf  mute,  who 
has  all  his  powers  of  locomotion,  aided  by  perfect 
sight.  He  is  annoyed  by  a  thousand  loathsome  and 
disgusting  objects,  which,  from  us,  are  excluded. 
Possessing  the  sense  of  hearing,  cultivated  to  an  as- 
tonishing degree,  and  a  delicacy  of  touch  known  only 
by  those  who  look  out  from  the  ends  of  their  fingers, 
we  hear  beauties  in  pleasant  voices,  sweet  sounds, 
and  even  what  may  seem  to  others  harsh  discord,  en- 
tirely hidden  to  the  more  obtuse  senses  of  those  who 
see..  We  derive  great  satisfaction  from  feeling  over 
glossy  surfaces,  equivalent,  perhaps,  to  the  pleasura- 
ble emotions  experienced  by  the  seeing  from  the  per- 
ception of  brilliant  colors.  Indeed,  this  charge  tin- 
not  be  true,  (though  a  hypothesis  commonly  assumei 
at  the  present  day,)  from  the  fact  that  the  blind,  in 
order  to  examine  objects  by  their  sense  of  toucii,  are 
necessarily  compelled  to  travel  over  a  space  of  ground 


.174  BEAUTIK8    OF   THE   BLIND. 

which  the  eye  might  embrace  at  a  single  glance.  In 
short,  all  blind  persons  with  whom  we  have  over  been 
acquainted,  are  more  or  less  addicted  to  habits  of  in- 
cessant motion,  either  in  walking  or  oscillating,  a 
motion  which  Blacklock  so  good-naturedly  describes 
in  his  picture  of  himself. 

An  opinion  is  prevalent,  even  at  the  present  day, 
that  when  the  grand  avenue  to  the  mind  is  closed 
from  birth,  nature  most  miraculously  provides  for  the 
deficiency,  by  digging  deep  the  other  channels ;  or, 
in  other  words,  rectifying  her  mistake  by  endowing 
her  imperfect  piece  of  mechanism  with  supernatural 
abilities.  Hence,  Rochester's  idea:  "If  one  sense 
should  be  suppressed,  it  but  .retires  into  the  rest." 
Some  suppose  that  when  the  mind  cannot  peep  out 
through  its  natural  windows,  at  the  fair  face  of  na- 
ture, it  listens  more  intently  at  what  is  going  on  with- 
out, and  even  reaches  out  through  the  lingers'  ends, 
to  gain  a  knowledge,  not  only  of  the  texture  of  ob- 
jects, but,  viirabUe  dictu,  even  their  very  colors, 
though  tinseled  with  a  thousand  liglits  and  shades. 
It  is  rather  surprising  that  those  who  entertain  such 
vague  notions,  are  not  fearful  that  some  elfish  blind 
pei^son,  in  groping  about  among  nature's  fixings, 
might  tarniijh  the  brilliant  colors  of  the  rainbow. 
These  remarks  are  not  meant  to  be  unkind,  nor  would 
we  be  understood  as  holding  in  contempt  the  infer- 
ences drawn  by  the  friends  of  the  blind,  from  the 
many  astonishing  exhibitions  of  their  delicacy  of 
touch.    Nor  do.  we  think  these  mistaken  impressions 


FRANCK8   JANE   CROSBY.  176 

unworthy  of  a  candid  consideration.  But,  having 
adverted  to  theiu  in  another  place,  let  us  turn  from 
this  digression,  patient  reader,  to  go  in  quest  of  the 
little  desponding  creature  whom  we  left  pining  over 
her  misfortunes. 

Her  seat  beside  her  cottage  door  is  desolate.  We 
now  see  her  in  the  midst  of  a  gay  group  of  merry 
school  girls,  quite  as  cheerful  and  happy  as  her  com- 
panions. She  has  now  reached  her  fifteenth  year, 
and  become  a  regular  inmate  of  the  New  York  Insti 
tution  for  the  Blind.  At  this  period,  it  is  said,  com- 
menced the  dawn  of  her  mental- existence,  from 
which  time  her  intellectual  powers  have  expanded, 
until  her '  imaginative  mind  has  been  enabled  to 
clothe  its  thoughts  in  language  at  once  chaste  and 
poetic.  No  longer  under  the  tender  care  and  ever- 
j^igilant  eye  of  a  fond  mother,  whose  anxious  solici- 
tude and  commiseration  for  her.  sightless  daughter 
tended  only  to  render  her  delicate  nature  the  more 
sensitive,  she  was  now  thrown  in  the  society  of  those 
whose  latent  powers  had  already  begun  to  unfold  to 
the  genial  rays  of  an  intellectual  day.  Soon  her 
slumbering  energies  were  aroused  to  vigorous  activ- 
ity. Her  fondness  for  poetry  soon,  manifested  itself. 
Soine  of  her  firet  effusions,  may  still  be  seen  in  the 
early  reports  of  the  institution.  Her  first  book  of 
poems  was  published  in  1844.  For  this  she  realizea 
for  herself  and  mother  considerable  pecuniary  aid. 
Her  last  work,  entitled  "  Monterey  and  other  Poems," 


176  BEAUTIKS   OF   THE    BLIND. 

appeared  in  1851.     From  this  we  have  made  the  foi 
lowing  selections : 


VISIT  TO  A  FIXED  STAR. 

[Suggested  on  attending  a  course  of  lectures  delivered  <it  the 
Broadway  Tabernacle,  by  Professor  Mitchell,  the  celebrated  Amer 
ican  astronomer.] 

Twas  night,  and  by  a  fountain  side, 

I  stood  and  mused  alone ; 
Strange  objects  rose  upon  my  sights 

That  were  to  me  unknown. 

Mysterious  forms  fantastic  moved. 

With  slow  and  measured  tread. 
Like  shadows  floating  in  the  air, 

Or  spectres  from  the  dead, 

A  goblet  from  that  fountain  filled^  i 

How  quickly  did  I  drain  I 
For  those  who  taste  its  cooling  draught 

May  live  the  past  again. 

TTien  suddenly  a  meteor  glare 

Flash'd  from  the  midnight  sky; 
Twas  gone, — and  on  immensity 

Was  riveted  mine  eye. 

Borne  upward  by  a  power  unseen. 

In  air  I  seemed  to  glide ; 
Onward — still  onward — was  my  course    ■ 

A  spirit  was  my  guide. 

We  passed  on  never-tiring  wings 
Tlirough  boundless  realms  of  space. 

Till  lost  amid  tliose  clustering  star* 
Tliat  here  we  scarce  can  trace- 


FRANC1<:S   JAJTE   CROSBY.  lit 

Vast  suns,  with  burning  satellites, 

Burst  on  my  wondering  e3e8: 
Bewii(^ered  by  their  dazzling  light, 

I  gazed  in  mute  surprise. 

"Tell  me,  celostial  one,"  I  said,     . 

"If  thou  mayst  be  addressed. 
Are  not  the  brilliant  orbs  I  see 

The  dwellings  v>f  the  blest  f 

"Can  we  the  utmost  limits  search  f— 

Tlie  heights  of  space  attain  f  " 
"  When  ends  eternity,"  he  cried, 

"And  Heaven  shall  cease  to  reign." 

He  spoke,  then  pointed  to  a  star. 

That  far  beyond  us  lay ; 
And  swifter  than  on  lightning's  wing 

"We  thither  bent  our  way. 

In  robes  of  passing  loveliness 

Was  Nature  there  arrayed^ 
The  air  was  fragrant  with  the  breath 

Of  flowers  that  never  fade. 

"Spirit,"  I  asked,  "can  aught  of  grief 

These  regions  fair  molest  f 
My  pinions  gladly  would  I  fold, 

In  this  bright  land  to  rest." 

'Mortal,"  he  answered,  "thou  must  pass 

The  portals  of  the  dead ; 
For  sacred  are  these  verdant  fields, 

Where  only  spirits  tread." 

He  ceased;  then  waved  me  back  to  eaith 

I  saw,  I  heard  no  more ; 
I  woke  as  from  a  pleasing  dream  ; 

The  mystic  spell  was  o'er. 


*,  7ft  BKAUTIES   OF  THE   BLIND. 


VOICE  OF  THE  TWILIGHT  HOUR. 

Voice  of  the  twilight  hour  I 

I  list  to  thy  heaven-breathed  tone, 
In  the  tender  sigh  of  the  closing  flower. 

Or  the  soft  wind's  dying  moan: 
Tliou  speak'st  of  the  hopes  that  smil'd 

On  the  bright  spring-time  of  youth, 
When  a  mother  knelt,  and  in  language  mild, 
A  lesson,  though  simple,  she  taught  her  child— 

'Twas  a  lesson  of  artless  truth. 

Voice  of  the  twilight  hour, 

How  sweet  is  thy  sound  to  me  I 
For  my  soul  is  entranced  by  thy  soothing  power 

And  its  sorrows  are  lost  in  thee  : 
Thou  art  heard  in  the  trembling  strings 

Of  the  harp  which  the  breezes  wake ; 
In  the  bird,  as  her  farewell  note  she  sings 
To  the  golden  hues  which  the  sunset  flings 

O'er  the  breast  of  the  silver  lake. 

Thou  speak'st  of  a  brighter  land — 

Of  a  far-off  region  fair. 
And  thy  whispere  are  soft  of  a  shadowy  band. 

And  I  know  that  the  loved  are  there. 
Voice  of  the  twilight  hour  I 

Ere  thy  heaven-breathed  tones  depart, 
Oh,  speak  in  the  sigh  of  the  closing  flower. 
Or  the  winds  that  die  in  the  green-wood  bowei 

Once  more  to  my  anxious  heart. 

Do  those  we  have  cherished  here 

In  tliat  land  their  love  forget  > 
Tliough  their  home  is  a  holier,  happier  epher« 

Oh  I  say,  do  they  guard  us  yet  i 


FKANCE8   JANE   CROSBY.  179 

But  the  twilight  answer'd  not ; 

And  a  voice  from  the  distant  hills 
R<  plied  as  I  stood  on  that  lonely  spot : 
The  friends  thou  hast  cherished  forget  thee  not, 

And  they  love  and  they  guard  thee  still. 

Twas  the  voice  of  the  silent  nriglit — 

And  the  earth  and  the  ocean  slept. 
And  the  silent  stars  with  their  mellow  light 

O'er  nature  their  vigils  kept. 
And  1  thought  it  were  bliss  to  die. 

To  fade  with  the  tints  of  even, 
For  gladly  then  would  the  spirit  fly 
On  its  angel  wings  ix)  the  realms  on  high. 

And  meet  with  the  lost  in  HeAven. 


MISS  CYNTHIA  BULLOCK. 

AN  AMERICAN  AUTHOKESS. 

•  Lo  1  heaven's  bright  bow  is  glad  I 
Lol  trees  and  flowers  all  clad  1 

In  glory  bloom ! 
And  shall  the  immortal  sons  of  God, 
Be  senseless  as  the  ti'odJen   .-loo', 
And  darker  than  the  tomb  f 

No  1  says  God,  our  sire  i 
Let  souls  have  holy  light  within, 
Let  every  form  of  grief  and  sin 

Now  feel  its  fire  I 
Truth — truth  alone, 

Is  light,  and  hope,  and  life,  and  power ; 
Earth's  deepest  night  from  this  blest  hoa.*. 

The  night  of  mind  be  gone  !  " 

Far  inadequate  is  human  wisdom,  aside  from  di 
vine  revelation,  to  foster  the  sacred  ties  that  should 
bind  our  race  in  gentleness  together.  The  arts,  sci- 
ences, and  multifarious  schools  of  philosophy,  in 
which  the  sages  of  antiquity  won  for  themselves  im- 
mortal fame,  tended  but  to  magnify  the  distinction 
between  the  lowly  and  privileged  classes,  and  dry  up 
the  vein  of  sympathy  between  the  opulent  and  de- 
'ected.  On  Bethlehem's  plains,  by  angelic  hosts,  was 
first  announced  on  earth,  the  advent  of  humanity's 


CFNTHIA   BULLOCK.  181 

great  Benefactor.  When  'ueath  Eden's  bowers,  our 
primitive  representatives  invoked  consuming  wrath, 
His  potent  hand  turned  aside  the  stroke  of  death,  and 
now  came  to  raise  the  fallen,  bind  up  the  broken- 
hearted, and  wipe  the  tear  from  the  cheek  of  the  dis- 
consolate. His  words  imparted  activity  to  the 
maimed,  life  to  the  dead,  and  sight  to  the  blind. 
The  injunctions  that  fell  from  his  holy  lips,  attended 
by  grace  divine,  have  gently  distilled  upon  the  sterile 
heart  of  huraauity,  like  the  dews  of  heaven  on  the 
tender  grass,  and  caused  it  to  germ,  and  bring  forth 
fruit  to  bless  the  afflicted.  The  many  brilliant  benev- 
olent institutions  that  gem  our  land,  like  stars  tho 
ethereal  blue,  are  but  emanations  from  that  glorious 
gospel  that  shall  eventually  restore  primitive  paradise 
to  man. 

Though  the  votaries  of  learning  of  every  nation, 
from  a  liigli  antiquity,  held  in  enthusiastic  admiration 
the  inimitable  songs  of  sightless  Homer,  no  institu- 
tion for  the  benefit  of  this  class,  adorned  the  plains 
of  Egypt,  or  crowned  the  sunny  hills  of  Greece,  or 
reflected  the  brightness  of  an  Italian  sky.  It  is  fron^ 
the  fountain  of  Christianity  alone,  that  flow  those  be- 
nign principles  that  lead  men,  at  the  present  day,  to 
supply  the  want  of  sight,  by  means  devised  by  mercy. 
One  of  the  recipients  of  such  public  munificence,  in 
whose  soul  was  poured  the  light  of  gladness,  is  our  pres- 
ent authoress.  And,  like  Israel's  poet,  her  lines 
glow  with  fervent  thanks  to  God,  the  bountiful  dis- 
penser of  temporal  as  well  as  spiritual  blessings. 


182  BKAUTIE8   OF  THE   BLIND. 

It  is  with  pleasure  that  we  ornament  the  pages  of 
this  work,  with  the  nainv?  and  a  few  select  poems  of 
this  distinguished  and  highly  gifted  authoress.  And 
we  only  regret  that  its  design  confines  us  to  so  small 
a  space,  in  which  to  give  a  sketch  of  her  biography ; 
but  hope  that  ere  long  she  will  favor  the  public  with 
a  fuller  history  of  her  experience  and  perigrinations 
in  her  world  of  physical  darkness. 

For  the  public  munificence  and  educational  oppor- 
tunities which  the  blind  of  this  country  at  present 
enjoy,  we  are  largely  indebted  to  the  efl'orts  of  this 
lady.  She  was  among  the  small  gi'oup  of  sightless 
children  collected  at  New  York,  by  the  benevolent 
Dr.  Akerly,  for  the  purpose  of  making  experiments 
in  the  instruction  of  this  class.  Her  quick  percep- 
tion and  readiness  in  acquiring  a  knowledge  of  all 
the  branches  of  science  in  which  she  was  trained, 
and  her  interesting  appearance  at  the  several  exam- 
inations and  exhibitions  given  before  the  legistature 
of  our  state,  greatly  aided  in  moving  that  body  to 
make  provisions  for  the  education  of  this  class,  on  a 
more  extensive  plan  ;  whose  example  nearly  all  the 
sister  states  of  this  great  republic  have  nobly  imita- 
ted. Who  can  estimate  the  vast  good  which  her 
indomitable  perseverance  has  done, in  self-culture, and" 
to  dispel  the  mental  gloom  that  so  Icfng  shrouded  all 
under  similar  circumstances.  Like  resistless  ocean's 
tide,  it  commenced  with  a  small  riplet,  but  will  con- 
tinue to  flow  on,  extend,  and  rise,  until  it  breaks  on 
the  boundless  shores  of  eternity. 


CYNTHIA   BULLOCK.  181 

Miss  Bullock  was  born  at  Lyons,  Wayne  county, 
2s  ew  York,  March  7th,  1821.  There  are,  perhaps, 
lew  deprivations  to  which  our  physical  organizatioD 
is  subject,  that  tend,  in  a  greater  degree,  to  weaken 
t  ar  predominant  and  all-absorbing  passion  for  life, 
Jian  that  under  which  this  infant  launched  her  frail 
ark  on  life's  tempestuous  sea.  The  earth  robed  ii 
richest  loveliness,  tinged  with  beauty's  fairest  dyes 
must  ever  be  to  her  but  a  mocking  unreality ;  the 
luminous  worlds  that  gem  the  sable  curtains  of  night 
could  have  no  voice  to  allure  her  thoughts  heaven- 
ward ;  and  the  rosy  tints  of  morn,  nor  the  gorgeous 
drapery  of  the  setting  sun,  could  ever  thrill  one  chord 
of  gladness  in  her  heart ;  for  her  captive  soul  must 
be  barred  in  a  livijig  tomb,  until  her  passage  through 
the  icy  portals  of  death. 

But  the  sunshine  of  parental  love  and  tenderness 
in  which  her  gentle  spirit  basked  through  the  early 
years  of  childhood,  dissipated  all  the  dark  gloom  that 
often  hovers  over  such  misfortunes,  and  fostered  a 
spirit  of  cheerfulness  in  her  heart  that  has  seldom 
since  forsaken  her.  The  current  of  her  days  was, 
however,  not  long  thus  gently  to  glide  on.  To  the 
kind  voice,  gentle  hand,  and  well  known  footsteps  of 
her  protecting  parent,  who  supplied,  so  far  as  possi- 
ble, her  want  of  sight,  and  filled  her  heart  with  joy 
and  gratitu.de,  together  with  the  wealth  and  ease  in 
which  her  home  abounded,  she  must  soon  bid  adieu 
forever.  "While  her  father  was  engaged  in  extensive 
business,  he  suddenly  died,  and  his  affairs  being  un- 


184  BEAUTIES   OF   THE   BLIND. 

settled,  "  unprincipled  persons  took  advantage  of 
these  unfortnnate  circumstances,  and  the  mother  and 
her  children  were  left  almost  destitute  ;  and  she  was 
obliged  to  exert  herself  to  the  utmost  of  her  abilitiea 
to  sustain  her  little  family." 

Little  Cynthia  early  manifested  great  activity  of 
mind,  "  and  when  her  brothers  began  to  go  to  school, 
a  loneliness  crept  over  her  spirit,  to  which  it  had  be- 
fore been  a  stranger.  She  felt  herself  isolated  with- 
out knowing  why,  yet  took  great  pleasure  in  commit- 
ting to  memory  the  woi'ds  which  fell  from  the  lips 
of  her  brothers,  as  they  conned  their  lessons  in  the 
evening.  Frequently,  after  they  had  ceased  reading, 
would  she  take  the  book,  and  for  some  time  feel  its 
smooth  pages.  Then  might  you  see  a  burning  tear 
rolling  silently  down  her  young  cheeks,  as  if  started 
by  the  thought :  'Oh,  how  delightful  thus  to  learn  so 
much  that  is  beautiful  and  interesting  ! '  But  these 
thoughts  did  not  long  cast  their  shadow  over  her 
childish  spirit."  The  rosy  morning  tints  of  a  brighter 
day  dawned  on  her  pathway,  and  a  brilliant  star  of 
nope  arose  to  adorn  the  horizon  of  her  soul.  The 
glorious  hand  of  philanthropy,  that,  in  the  forenoon 
of  the  nineteenth  century,  commenced  strewing  her 
choicest  flowers  along  the  pathway  of  the  blind,  and 
•ishered  into  the  world  of  humanity  a  new  era,  sought 
her  out,  and  endowed  her  with  that  liberal  instruction 
wliich  her  dawning  intellect  so  much  craved. 

Accordingly,  in  1833,  when  in  the  thirteenth  year 
of  her  age,  she  joined  the  small,  sightless  class  ad- 


CYNTUIA   BULLOCK.  1S& 

verted  to  in  the  foregoing.  From  this  iiminutive 
germ,  has  grown  the  now  proud  institution  tliat  is  an 
ornament  to  the  city  of  New  York,  and  that  has  dis- 
pensed such  innumerable  blessings  to  the  blind.  All 
along  its  steadily  progressive  course,  Miss  Bullock  has 
been  a  shining  light,  and  when  charity  convened  her 
noblest  sons,  to  lay  the  foundation  of  its  present  beau- 
tiful building,  her  silvery  voice  joined  in  swelling 
high  the  anthem  of  praise  to  Him  who  sits  enthroned 
in  resplendent  glory,  and  yet  has  made  the  poor  and 
afilicted  the  object  of  his  especial  care. 

In  every  age  prior  to  the  present,  parents  looked 
upon  their  sightless  offspring  with  scarcely  any  feel- 
ings but  of  pity  and  sorrow  ;  their  life  was  viewed 
as  one  of  dark  privation  and  sadness,  and  death  as  a 
release  from  misery.  Without  the  means  of  acquiring 
knowledge,  and  not  promising  to  be  useful,  they  were 
generally  kept  out  of  society,  and  away  from  the  best 
sources  of  information.  This  institution  opens  a  new 
world  to  them  :  they  can  now  enjoy  the  morning  sur 
and  evening  shade  ;  they  can  welcome  the  return  of 
day  as  a  scene  of  busy  variety,  and  the  repose  of  eve- 
ning as  a  happy  rest  from  labor  ;  the  monotony  of 
silent  grief  is  here  dispelled,  the  heaving  boson- 
calmed,  and  the  soul  once  more  enters  on  a  blissful 
3areer.  They  were  without  hope  of  participating  in 
the  common  felicities  of  life,  but  they  now  enter  upon 
their  actual  possession  and  enjoyment.  Rescued  from 
degradation  and  mourning,  and  i)rouglit  froru  darkness 
to  light ;  they  begin  at  once  to  think  correctly,  to  act 


186  BEAUTIES   OF  THE   BLIND. 

consistently,  to  feel  that  they  are  an  important,  and 
may  be  a  useful  portion  of  our  race.  The  health, 
cheerfulness  and  independence  that  wait  upon  honest 
industry,  are  secured  to  them  :  and  even  the  sweets 
jf  happy  home  to  be  their  own  possession,  are  placed 
within  their  reach. 

As  a  teacher  in  both  the  literary  and  musical  de- 
partment of  this  Institute,  Miss  Bullock  has  renderafl. 
efficient  service.  And  many  are  its  present  friends 
and  patrons,  whom  her  ever  ready  and  highly  poetic 
eloquence  on  all  public  occasions  has  won. 

In  1852,  she  presented  herself  before  the  public  as 
an  authoress,  with  a  collection  of  her  choicest  poems, 
characterized  by  a  poetic  genius,  elegance  of  style, 
and  a  knowledge  of  nature  truly  surprising  in  one  so 
young  "She  is  endowed  with  the  feeling  and  fancy 
of  a  poet,  and  so  answers  the  classic  maxim — a  poet 
is  born,  not  manufactured."  As  an  example  of  her 
chaste  and  happy  style,  we  quote  the  ftdlowing  lines, 
addressed  to  her  bird  : 


Thon  call'st  me  from  ambition's  dream. 

From  tlioughts  that  wear  the  taiut  of  earth. 

From  fancy's  bright  and  airy  beam. 
To  list  thy  song  of  artless  mirth. 


Thy  song  of  mirth,  0  joyous  bird ! 

Breaks  witli  Aurora's  gushing  light, 
Is  with  the  sigh  of  evening  heard, 

Whei  vails  the  sun  his  radiance  bright. 


CYNTHIA    BUrXOOK.  H7 

I  sometimes  deem  tliat  thou  liast  flown 

With  birds  in  aiiiarantliiiie  bowers, 
And  caiiglit  tiieir  melody  of  tone 

To  cheer  this  lonely  world  of  ours. 

Love  dwells  for  thee  in  every  flower, 

lu  fertile  vale  and  gurgling  rill; 
On  zeph}  r's  breath  in  sorrow's  hour, 

It  sheds  a  perfume  round  thee  stilL 

Then  call  me  from  ambition's  dream, 

From  thoughts  that  wear  the  taint  of  earth. 

From  fancy's  bright  and  airy  beam — 
I  love  thy  song  of  artless  mirth. 

T}  ongh  she  loves  most  to  contemplate  subjects  full 
of  the  grand  and  sublime,  she  also  possesses  a  lively 
appreciation  of  the  humorous,  as  the  following  lines 
may  serve  to  show  : 


FALLING  OF  THE  DINKER-POT. 

To  all  who  have  an  hour  to  spend, 

I'll  sing  a  little  song; 
Please  promise  me  you  will  not  smile 

When  told  it  can't  be  long. 

Of  death,  of  loss  of  property. 

Of  blighted  hope  and  love  ; 
Of  friends  that  coil  around  the  heart, 

And  then  deceptive  prove  I 

Ah  1  there  are  hues  of  darker  shades 
Reserved  for  each  poor  sinner; 

But  none  their  withering  blast  can  know, 
Who  has  net  lost  his  dinner. 


\hb  BEAUTIES   OF  THE   BLIND. 

Seated  in  social  converse  sweet, 
Tlie  liours  sped  quickly  past : 

We  talked  of  C.  D.'s  perjured  oath. 
His  motives  first  aud  last. 

And  as  the  kitchen  door  would  op«, 

Was  the  olfactory  nerve, 
Aye,  greeted  by  a  savory  smell. 

Which  would  as  whetstone  serve 

Of  appetite.     Tables  and  chair;, 

All  in  their  places  ^ood. 
And  needed  but  their  occupants, 

To  make  all  very  good. 

What  means  that  loud,  tremendous  crasb 
Why  startle  witli  affright? 

Why  stands  aghast  yon  trembling  girl. 
With  lips  so  ashy  waite  f 

Ah,  me  I  my  dear,  said  Mrs.  P., 

Ours  is  a  woful  lot ; 
An  accident — our  careful  girl 

Upset  the  dinner-pot  I 

Yes,  there  a  most  delicious  stew 

Lies  strewn  along  the  floor  I 
I'm  sure"  those  boards  have  never  kuowi 
,  Such  feasting  times  before. 

Each  to  the  other  comfort  spoke. 
For,  from  a  bounteous  store. 

An  humbler  meal  tlie  table  graced : 
We  ate  and  laughed  once  more. 

And  all  agreed  with  one  accord. 

That  we'd  forget  it  not. 
The  day  on  which  our  hopes  fell  dc  «n 

With  that  said  dinner-pot. 


CYNTHIA    BULLOC3K.  189 

A  few  other  choice  selections  may  not  be  without 
interest  to  the  reader : 


HOPE.* 


I've  floated  o'er  eartL  on  a  beam  of  light, 
Ab  the  fire-fly  shines  in  the  darkest  night , 
I've  kissed  the  flowers  bespangled  -with  dew, 
Tlien  soared  aloft  to  my  home  of  blue. 
On  a  golden  beam  through  a  fairy  bower 
I  have  sought  in  vain  for  a  fadeless  flower ; 
Its  hue  must  be  bright  as  a  seraph's  wings. 
When  he  basks  in  the  smile  of  tlie  King  cf  kings 
Its  fragrance  pure  as  the  light  above 
That  beams  from  the  brow  of  the  God  of  love. 
I  sought  on  that  lovely  sea-girt  shore. 
Where  science  and  wisdom  were  blent  of  yore. 
Where,  sportive  as  birds  in  their  leafy  bowers. 
Young  children  were  twining  the  earliest  flowers 
Yet  their  sires  were  groaning  with  anguish  keen, 
•  On  each  manly  cheek  was  the  tear-drop  seen. 
And  lone  by  that  shore,  where  the  Grecian  wave 
Was  dashing  its  spray,  stood  a  chieftain  brave. 
His  people  were  slaves,  and  their  galling  chain 
Was  rending  his  soul.     Shall  it  suff"er  in  vain  I . 
I  sought  to  solace  his  anguish  deep, 
And  encourage  his  heart  that  he  should  not  weep  • 
And  he  said,  as  I  whispered:  My  arm  is  strong 
Unconscious  of  might,  I  have  wept  too  long ; 
My  land  shall  be  free  as  the  morntain  air, 
And  the  tyrant  be  crushed  in  his  hideous  lair 
But  his  generous  soul  with  revenge  grew  dark. 
And  I  wept,  though  I  quenched  not  its  kindling  s|)ark. 
Where  the  happy  were  wrapped  in  their  visions  of  love, 
And  the  sky-lamps  were  gemming  the  azure  above, 

ITiitUui  for  the  uiulveraary  of  1868. 


190  BEAUTIES   CF   THE   BLIND. 

On  the  downy  breath  of  the  sportive  breeze. 

That  murmured  ail  night  'mid  the  leaf-clad  tfeca, 

I  was  gentl}'  borne  to  a  chamber  lone, 

Where  the  midnight  lamp  o'er  a  scholar  shone, 

The  offspring  of  genius,  wbose  every  thought 

With  fancy  and  feeling  was  richly  fraught. 

But  a  dream  of  ambition  was  lurking  there. 

And  I  turned  with  a  sigh  to  a  scene  more  fair. 

Where  the  perfume  sweet  o'er  my  senses  stole : 

'Twas  the  balm  of  peace  to  the  anguished  soul ; 

It  breathed  from  a  flower,  a  lovely  thing 

That  bloomed  in  the  heart's  most  sacred  spring. 

Tlien  the  trophy-clad  seraphs  around  me  came  ; 

Their  harps  of  glory  were  sounding  its  name. 

'Twas  blessed  beneficence,  spotless  and  mihl, 

And  I  hailed  it  immortal  with  joys  undefiled. 

In  an  amaranth  wreath,  for  the  brow  of  the  kind. 

It  is  twined  by  the  orphan,  the  mute,  and  the  blind. 

And  it  blooms  ever  fair,  as  the  star  of  even. 

Though  drooping  and  sad  with  the  tear-drops  of  heavftc 


THE  RETURN.* 

All-hallowing  memory,  holy,  blest, 

Comes  like  the  wind-harp's  note  at  ever, 

Suotliing  the  spirit's  sad  unrest 

With  glimpses  of  its  promised  heaven. 

Fond  moment  of  terrestrial  bliss  t 

In  fancy's  magic  mirror  bright, 
I  feel  a  mother's  fervent  kiss. 

And  hear  a  father's  sweet  good  night. 

*  EmoUona  of  a  friond,  who,  after  long  absence  from  home,  drank  the  Croto* 
ratw  a fow  moo  ere*  ^efnrA  landinsAt  New  York. 


CYNTHIA   BULLOCK.  191 

I've  wandered  from  my  boyhood's  home, 

And  stood  beneath  Italia's  skies ; 
I've  trod  thy  streets,  imperial  Rome, 

And  learned  how  earth-born  splendor  dies. 

[n  sunny  France,  'm'd  England's  bowers, 

And  Scotland,  with  its  varied  view 
Of  rocky  glens  and  lovely  flowers — 

Each  fairy  haunt  how  well  I  knew  I 

And  mused  o'er  Erin's  shamrock  green. 

So  precious  to  each  Irish  heart, 
Till  in  the  faded  past  were  seen 

Its  glories  from  the  dust  to  start.- 

I'm  turning  from  these  scenes  away 

To  thee,  my  bo^'hood's  happy  home ; 
To  the  fond  friends  of  early  day, 

Like  the  lone,  wandering  dove,  I  conoa 

And  while  I  quaff  the  waters  bright, 

Dear  Croton,  of  thy  crystal  stream, 
Unnumbered  airy  dreams  of  lights 

Around  my  truant  fancy  beam. 

Light  of  my  life  art  thou  to  me, 

Sweet  home,  my  first  and  latest  star ; 
I  never  knew  how  dear  thou'dst  be, 

Till  I  had  wandered  thus  afar. 

So,  sacred  Nile,  thy  sons  for  thee 

Would  weep  in  Cashmere's  lovely  vale. 
Look  wildly  on  Marmora's  sea. 

Nor  heed  Arabia's  spicy  gale. 

But  sigh  for  Egypt's  pleasant  stream. 
That  washed  their  sunny  land  the  while 

Day's  star  of  hope,  night's  dearest  dream. 
Were  the  sweet  waters  of  the  Nile 


MISS  MPHJSE  S.  GILES. 

**With  affections  warm,  intense,  refined. 
She  mingled  such  calm  and  holy  strength  of  mind. 
That,  like  heaven's  image  in  the  smiling  brook. 
Celestial  peace  was  pictured  in  her  look." 

Theke  is  perhaps  no  manifestation  of  the  human 
Intellect  that  more  conclusivelj  proves  its  immor- 
tality, than  our  constant  discontent  with  the  present, 
arid  insatiate  reaching  forward  after  objects  of  desire 
shrouded  in  the  vista  of  futurity.  Before  the  bud- 
ding mind  is  sufficiently  developed  to  comprehend 
:t3  responsibility  or  learn  its  destiny,  the  heart  is 
moved  forward  by  an  innate  impulse,  and  the  pure 
fancy  is  impressed  with  alluring  images,  natives  of  a 
brighter  sphere.  When  in  the  sunny  hours  of  child 
hood  we  sport  upon  the  flowery  lawn,  sit  by  the  mur- 
muring rill,  as  it  gently  meanders  along  its  willowed 
banks,  or  chase  with  fantastic  tread  tlie  gay  butterfly 
over  tlie  rich  green  meadoAvs,  plucking  from  our  path 
the  lily  and  the  wild  rose,  life  seems  to  us  but  one 
scene  of  charming  beauty,  unsullied  by  the  snares 
'>f  sin. 

Yet  oft  from  those  innocent  sports  we  turn  away, 
'•nr  hearts  panting  for  maturer  years';  and,  wliile 
glancing  to  the  future,  we  paint  in  our  youthful  ardor 


UAPONE   8.    GILK8.  193 

all  that  is  df».H(rhtfut  and  gay.  But,  alas!  as  \vc  gen- 
tly glide  along  the  current  of  time  and  emerge  into 
the  busy  scenes  of  life,  how  oft  are  our  fondest  hopes 
blighted,  and  mountains  of  sorrow  and  disappoint- 
ment appear  in  view,  rearing  their  summits  to  the 
sky,  yet  glittering  with  the  tears  of  earthly  pilgrims 
that  have  passed  over  before  us.  Yet  who  dares 
murmur  at  his  lot?  lie  who  holds  in  his  hands  the 
destiny  of  individuals  as  well  as  nations,  has  purposes 
to  accomplish.  Whatever  he  decrees  in  his  right- 
eousness, though  it  at  first  seems  our  loss  of  all,  will 
ultimately  prove  our  highest  good.  "  For  my  thoughts 
are  not  your  thoughts,  neither  are  my  ways  your 
ways,  saith  the  Lord.  For  as  the  heavens  are  higher 
than  the  earth,  so  are  my  ways  higher  than  youi 
ways,  and  my  thoughts  than  your  thoughts." 

No  theme  or  philosophy  devised  by  ancient  or 
modern  sa<fes  can  administer  so  sovereiorn  a  solace  to 
the  afflicted  or  sorrow-stricken  soul  as  an  unshaken 
confidence  in  a  wise,  overruling  Providence,  and  an 
enlightened  faith  in  the  doctrines  of  the  everlasting 
gospel.  On  the  precious  promises  beaming  from 
that  volume  our  present  authoress  has  securely  rested 
under  all  her  trying  afflictions. 

Miss  Giles  was  born  at  New  Haven,  Vermont,  Oc- 
tober 2d,  1812.  Of  her  parentage  we  can  gather  no 
information  from  either  her  writings  or  allusions  to 
her  life  by  other  authors.  It  appears  that  her  former 
biographei-s,  like  ourselves,  placed  no  high  estimate 
on  hereditary  celebrity,  or,  feared  to  commit  treason 


194  BEAUTIES  OF  THE  BLIIO). 

against  this  age  of  progression  bj  dragging  their 
readers  back  over  the  ruins  and  rubbish  of  feudalism 
and  chivalry,  to  detail  the  wonderful  achievements 
of  her  ancestors ;  but  in  harmony  with  the  true  re- 
publican spirit  of  her  own  themes,  we  are  content  to 
rest  her  fame  upon  the  literary  and  poetic  merit  of 
iier  own  productions. 

As  the  years  of  her  youth  afibrd  no  incidents  de- 
serving notice  in  this  connection,  we  will  pass  them 
over  to  the  fourteenth  year  of  her  age.     At  this  pe- 
riod, when  the  mind  is  just  beginning  to  unfoid  to 
the  boauties  of  nature  and  science,  and  elating  hopes 
of  the  future  inspire  the  heart,  the  blighting  hand  of 
disease  laid  hold  upon  her,  and  bowed  her  tender 
heart  to  the  sad  destiny  of  having  looked  upon  the 
variegated  colors  of  creation,  the  fleecy  clouds,  the 
silvery  moon,  the  burnished  stars,    and  the  radiant 
king  of  day  in  his  meridian  splendor,  for  the  last  time. 
The  deep  sorrow  and  gloom  that  must  have  shrouded 
her  spirits  at  the. time  of  this  melancholy  privation, 
we  can  justly  appreciate,  but  have  no  terms  to  give 
them  utterance.     And  were  all  the  force  of  each  lan- 
guage, ever  spoken  by  human  tongue,  concentrated 
into  one  sHort  sentence,  it  would  be  far  inadequate. 
Her  native  energies  and  brilliant  intellect  were,  how- 
over,  not  crushed  by  this  appalling  event,  nor  long 
suffered  to  slumber  undeveloped.     The  glorious  spirit 
of  the  gospel,  that  in  the  morning  of  the  nineteenth 
century  has  raised  up  friends  to  bless  every  chiss  of 
su"ering  humanity,  also  moved  the  hearts  of  philan- 


DAPHNE   8.    GILES.  1 9o 

thropists,  (though  last  of  all,)  to  ameliorate  the  condi- 
tion of  the  blind.  In  the  twenty-second  year  of  her 
apro,  while  residing  at  Dexter,  Michigan,  being  in- 
formed that  books  with  embossed  letters  were  printed 
for  the  blind,  she  would  not  rest  content  until  in  pos- 
session of  such  (to  her)  priceless  volumes.  She  haa 
since  been  enabled  to  read  the  sacred  oracles,  together 
with  other  works  prepared  in  this  njanner,  and  highly 
esteems  the  privilege,  though  it  is  by  the  slow  process 
of  feeling  out  the  letters. 

In  1839,  the  refulgent  star  of  the  New  York  Insti- 
tution for  the  Blind,  that  has  shed  its  intellectual 
light  upon  so  many  noble  youths,  and  who  in  return 
have  become  lights  of  the  first  magnitude  in  the  lit- 
erary world,  beckoned  her  to  come,  and  soon  her 
cheerful  voice  echoed  within  its  spacious  halls.  Her 
legitimate  residence  being  in  Michigan,  and  she  there- 
fore unable  to  claim  the  patronage  of  our  state  prof- 
fered to  all  New  York  pupils,  the  Baptist  society  (of 
which  she  was  a  member  and  ornament)  and  the  di- 
rectors of  the  institute,  generously  offered  to  defray 
her  expenses  while  here  passing  through  a  course  of 
scientific  studies. 

There  have  been  episodes  in  the  annals  of  litera- 
ture, whose  greatest  and  controlling  intellects  were 
the  spontaneous  productions  of  nature,  and  their  own 
unaided  efforts.  But  in  an  age  like  the  present,  when 
everything  in  the  scope  of  human  reason  is  so  thor- 
oughly theorized  and  systematized,  the  world  is  slow 
to  acknowledge  merit,  unless  tipped   by  a  diploma 


106  BEAUTIES   OF   THE    BLIND. 

and  honorary  medals  of  some  renowned  university. 
But  aside  from  the  honors  generally,  awarded  to  su 
j»erior  knowledge,  to  secure  a  literary  education  and 
connection  with  the  mighty  battery  of  science  that 
electrifies  and  binds  together  the  entire  enlightened 
portion  of  mankind,  and  thereby  keep  pace  with  the 
spirit  of  the  nineteenth  century,  is  an  object  claiming 
the  most  assiduous  attention  of  every  social  being. 

There  is  perhaps  no  institution  in  our  country  more 
eminently  calculated  to  develop  all  the  essential  pow- 
ers of  our  nature,  than  the  one  of  which  Miss  Giles 
became  a  happy  inmate,  and  no  effort  did  she  spare 
to  avail  herself  of  all  the  advantages  afforded  in  its 
several  departments.  The  student's  time  is  here  <ii 
vided  into  three  parts,  and  his  instruction  arranged 
into  three  separate  classes,  intellectual,  mechanical, 
and  musical.  B}"  means  of  the  first,  regular  instruc- 
tion is  given  in  reading,  writing,  grammar,  geogra- 
phy, arithmetic,  history,  and  all  other  English  branches 
taught  at  the  best  schools,  togetlier  with  the  Latin 
and  French  languages. 

The  number  of  books  printed  in  raised  characters 
being  as  yet  very  limited,  the  instruction  in  this  de- 
partment is  principally  conducted  orally  ;  a  system 
of  teaching  not  inferior  to  any  other,  especially  where 
the  retentive  powers  of  the  pupil  are  as  tenacious  as 
those  of  the  blind.  The  mechanical  operations  con- 
sist of  several  trades,  in  the  prosecution  of  which 
sight  can  be  most  easily  dispensed  with.  This,  wliile 
it  produces  something  towards  the  expenses  of  the  in- 


DAPHNE  8.    GILES.  197 

stitntion,  is  the  means  of  instructing  the  laborers  and 
learners  in  brandies  of  industry  that  will  enable  them 
to  provide  for  themselves.  Music  in  every  ate  has 
been  the  chief  delii^ht  and  principal  pursuit  of  the 
blind,  and  owin^  to  the  extreme  refinement  of  tlieir 
auditory*  powers,  it  perhaps  affords  them  higher  grat- 
ification than  any  other  class  of  mankind.  Tliis  sci- 
ence is  here  taught  to  great  perfection.  Ahnost 
every  instrument  of  modern  use  has' been  introduced, 
and  great  proficiency  in  performance  has  been  at- 
tained by  students,  especially  on  the  piano  forte 
and  organ.  The  vocal  department  of  music  has  also 
received  efficient  attention.  In  acquiring  a  knowl- 
edge of  this  branch,  but  little  inconvenience  is  real- 
ized by  the  pupil  from  his  loss  of  sight.  After  re- 
ceivins  a  thorou<jrh  knowledy-e  of  its  rudiments,  all 
the  assistance  he  requires  is  the  reading  of  the  .music 
until  committed  to  memory,  which  practice  greatly 
facilitates. 

In  all  the  varied  exercises  and  duties  of  this  insti- 
tution, and  the  perplexing  incidents  invariably  at- 
tending a  student's  life.  Miss  Giles  sustained  herself 
with  commendable  ability.  In  1841,  she  bade  adieu 
to  the  institute,  her  teachers,  and  kind  benefactors, 
and  returned  to  her  friends  in  Michigan,  with  a  more 
exalted  and  rational  idea  of  life  and  happiness.  W*e 
need  not  the  feeling  eloquence  of  a  Milton  to  paint 
out  before  the  public  mind  the  utilitj*  of  such  institu 
tions  for  this  class  of  communit}'- ;  we  need  only  ad 
vert  to  the  child  as  it  enters  the  school,  borne  down 


198  BKAUTIK8    OF   THE    BLIND. 

with  a  sense  of  blindness,  and  witness  the  changed 
condition  of  the  graduate  student  in  the  honorable 
walks  of  life  ;  happy  as  if  uninin  !ful  of  the  want  of 
sight,  his  son!  filled  witli  the  thought  that  he  can  al- 
ways find  in  labor,  support,  and  in  reading,  amuse 
ment,  without  painfully  depending  on  the  eyesight 
of  others,  while  in  writing  he  has  his  circle  of  com- 
munication enlarged  until  it  embraces  the  world. 

When  Miss  Giles  wrote  her  first  poems,  it  a])pear8 
to  have  been  far  from  her  intention  to  present  herself 
before  the  public  in  the  capacity  of  an  authoress. 
They  were  the  result  of  her  solitary  musings  on 
heavenly  themes,  while  in  a  measure  secluded  from 
society,  and  were  written  down  for  the  gratification 
of  those  few  friends  with  whom  she  was  daily  con- 
versant. Several  of  these  found  their  way  into  the 
publiQ  journals,  and  the  favorable  notice  they  at- 
tracted induced  her  to  publish  from  her  portfolio  a 
small  volume.  The  approving  smile  with  which  an 
indulgent  public  received  this  laudable  eftbrtfor  self- 
maintenance,  and  the  essential  pecuniary  aid  realized 
from  its  sale,  induced  her  more  extensively  to  employ 
her  pen. 

Three  years  subsequent,  in  1848,  her  second  work- 
made  its  appearance,  entitled  "  Female  Influence  ;  " 
and  her  third  publication,  entitled  "  Balm  of  Gilead," 
was  issued  from  the  press  in  1852.  Much  might  be 
justly  said  in  praise  of  the  chaste,  poetic,  and  liigiily 
descriptive  style  of  these  productions;  but  it  is  not 
our  purpose,  in  the  present  work,  to  bias  the  minds 


PAl'HNK    S.  GII.KS.  199 

of  oar  readers  in  favor  of  the  authors  we  notice  with 
an  elahorate  review,  but  prefer  to  give  a  few  select 
extracts. 

We  copy  the  following  essay  on  intellectual  devel- 
opment from  her  work  entitled  "  Female  Influence," 
chapter  seventh  : 

"  What  a  striking  resemblance  there  is  between  a 
well  cultivated  garden  and  the  immortal  mind  ! 
What  a  living  picture  is  here  of  the  beneficial  effects 
of  industry!  By  industry  and  cultivation  this  neat 
spot  is  an  image  of  Eden.  Here  is  all  that  can  enter- 
tain the  eye  or  regale  the  smell.  Whereas,  without 
cultivation,  this  sweet  garden  had  been  a  desolate 
wilderness.  Vile  thistles  had  made  it  loathsome,  and 
taniilincj  briars  inaccessible.  Without  cultivation,  it 
miglit  have  been  a  nest  for  serpents,  and  the  horrid 
haunt  of  venomous  creatures.  But  the  spade  and 
pruning  knife,  in  the  hand  of  industry,  have  improved 
it  into  a  sort  of  terrestrial  paradise.  How  nat- 
urally does  it  lead  us  to  contemplate  the  advantages 
which  flow  from  a  virtuous  education,  and  the  mise- 
ries which  ensue  from  the  neglect  of  it!  The  mind, 
without  early  instruction,  will,  in  all  probability,  be- 
come like  the  '  vineyard  of  the  sluggard,'  if  left  to 
the  propensities  of  its  own  depraved  will ;  what  can 
we  exj)ect  but  the  luxuriant  growth  of  unruly  ap])e- 
tites,  ^\hich,  in  time,  will  break  forth  in  all  manner 
of  irregularities  ?  What  but  that  anger,  like  a 
prickly  thorn,  arms  the  tempter  with  an  untractable 
fiaorosonoss ;  peevishness,  like  a  stinging  nettle,  ren 


200  UEAU'HES  OF  THE  BLIND. 

der  the  conversation  irksome  and  forbidding;  avarice^ 
like  some  choking  weed,  teach  the  lingers  to  gripe, 
and  the  hands  to  oppress  ;  revenge,  like  some  poison- 
ous phmt,  replete  with  hanefnl  juices,  rankle  in  the 
breast,  and  meditate  miscliief  to  its  neighbor ;  while 
unbridled  lusts,  like  swarms  of  noisome  insects,  taint 
each  rising  thought,  and  render  'every  imagination 
of  the  heart  only  evil  continually  ? '  Such  are  the 
usual  products  of  savage  nature;  such  the  furniture 
of  the  uncultivated  soul  1 

"  Whereas,  let  the  mind  be  put  under  the  'nurture 
and  admonition  of  the  Lord;'  let  holy  discipline 
clear  the  soil :  let  sacred  instruction  sow  it  with  the 
best  seed:  let  skill  and  vigilance  dress  the  rising 
shoots,  direct  the  young  idea  .how  to  spread,  tlie  way- 
vard  passions  how  to  move  ;  then  what  a  different 
tate  of  the  inner  man  will  take  place  !  Citarity  will 
breathe  her  sweets,  and  hope  expand  her  blossoms ; 
the  pei"sonal  virtues  display  their  graces,  and  the  so^ 
cial  ones  their  fruits  ;  the  sentiments  become  gener 
ous,  the  carriage  endearing,  the  life  honorable  and 
useful. 

.  "  Oh !  that  governors  of  families  and  masters  of 
schools  would  watch,  with  a  conscientious  solicitude, 
over  the  morals  of  their  tender  charges.  What «  pity 
it  is,  that  the  advancing  generation  should  K>se  these 
invaluable  endov/ments,  through  any  supineness  in 
their  instructo)"s.  See,  with  what  assiduity  tlie  curi- 
ous Horist  attends  his  little  nursery!  He  visits  them 
early  and  late,  furnishes  them   with  the  properust 


DAPHNE    8.   G1LK8.  201 

mould ;  supplies  them  with  seasonable  moisture ; 
guards  them  from  the  ravages  of  insects ;  screens 
them  from  the  injuries  of  the  weather;  marks  their 
springing  buds  ;  observes  them  attentively  through 
their  whole  progress  ;  and  never  intermits  his  anxiety 
until  he  beholds  them  blown  into  full  perfection. 
And  shall  a  range  of  painted  leaves,  which  flourish 
to-day  and  to-morrow  fall  to  the  ground — shall  these 
be  tended  with  more  zealous  application  than  the 
exalted  faculties  of  an  immortal  soul? 

"  Yet,  trust  not  in  cultivation  alone.  It  is  tiie 
blessing  of  the  Almighty  Husbandman  which  im- 
parts success  to  such  labors  of  love.  If  God  '  seal 
up  the  bottles  of  heaven,'  and  command  the  clouds 
to  withhold  their  fatness,  the  best  manured  plat  be- 
comes a  barren  desert.  And  if  he  restrain  the  dew 
of  his  heavenly  benediction,  all  human  endeavors 
miscarry ;  the  rational  plantation  languishes  ;  our 
most  pregnant  hopes,  from  youths  of  the  most  prom- 
ising genius,  prove  abortive.  Their  root  will  be  as 
rottenness,  and  their  blossom  will  go  up  as  dust. 
Therefore,  let  parents  plant ;  let  tutors  water ;  but 
let  both  look  up  to  the  Father  of  spirits  for  the  de- 
sired increase.  On  every  side  I  espy  several  budding 
flowers. 

"  As  yet,  they  are  like  bales  of  cloth  from  the  pack- 
er's ware-house,  each  is  wrapped  within  a  strong  en- 
closure, and  its  contents  are  tied  together  by  the  firm- 
est bandasres :  so  that  all  their  beauties  lie  concealed. 


209  BEAUTIES    OF   TUK    BLIND. 

and  all  their  sweets  locked  up.  Just  such  is  the  nig- 
jrardly  wretcli,  whose  aims  are  all  turned  inward,  and 
meanly  terminated  upon  himself;  who  makes  his 
own  private  interests  or  personal  pleasures  the  sole 
center  of  his  designs,  and  the  scanty  circumference 
of  his  actions.  Ere  long  the  searching  beams  will 
open  the  silken  folds,  and  draw  them  into  a  graceful 
expansion.  Then  what  a  lovely  blush  will  glow  on 
their  cheeks,  and  what  a  balmy  odor  exhale  from 
their  bosoms !  So  when  divine  grace  shines  upon 
thrf  mind,  even  the  churl  becomes  bountiful ;  the 
heart  of  stone  is  taken  away,  and  a  heart  of  flesh,  a 
heart  susceptible  of  the  softest,  most  compassionate 
emotions,  is  introduced  in  its  stead  O  !  how  sweetly 
do  the  social  atfections  dilate  themselves  under  so 
benign  an  influence  !  just  like  these  disclosing  gems 
under  the  powerful  eye  of  day.  The  tender  regards 
are  no  longer  confided  to  a  single  object,  but  extend 
themselves  into  a  generous  concern  for  mankind,  and 
shed  liberal  refreshments  on  all  within  tiieir  reach. 
Arise,  then,  tliou  sun  of  righteousn-ess  ;  arise  with 
healing  on  thy  wings  ;  and  transfuse  thy  gentle 
but  penetrating  ray  through  all  our  intellectual  pow- 
ers. Enlarge  every  narrow  disposition,  and  till  us 
with  a  diffused  benevolence.  Make  room  in  our 
breasts  for  the 'whole  human  race;  and  teach  us  to 
love  all  our  fellow-creatures,  for  their  amiable  Crea- 
tor's sake.  May  we  be  pleased  with  their  excellen 
cies,  and  rejoice  in  their  happiness ;  but  feel  thei' 


WAPHNR   S,  GILES.  203 

miseries  as  our  own,  and,  with  a  brother's  sympathy, 
hasten  to  relieve  them." 

The  followino'  we  srive  from  her  "  Balm  of  Gilead  : ' 


THE  CAUSE  OF  TEMPERANCE. 

Dear  Friend:  —  As  the  subject  of  temperance 
elicits  the  attention  of  every  philanthropist,  and 
causes  the  heart  of  every  lover  of  human  happinesf 
to  increase  its  pulsation,  as  he  views  the  dark  tide  of 
desolation  as  it  has  flowed  through  our  country,  bearing 
upon  its  accursed  waves  the  hopes  of  the  young,  and 
the  stay  and  stafl'  of  the  aged,  the  groans  and  tears  of 
the  widow,  while  the  disgraced  orphan  sends  up  the 
piteous  cry,  "  Help !  help  !  save,  Lord,  or  we  per- 
ish I "  shall  we,  who  have  long  advocated  the  cause 
of  temperance,  be  silent?  We  will  not.  Let  the 
pulpit  and  the  press,  the  workshop  and  the  store,  the 
ballot-box  and  the  halls  of  legislation,  be  the  place 
where  it  shall  be  boldly  advocated  and  defended.  I 
envy  not  that  man — if  he  is  worthy  the  name  of  man 
— that  is  so  steeped  in  stoicism  as  to  be  indifferent  to 
the  millions  that  are  falling  annually  by  this  fell  de- 
stroyer— the  demon  intemperance.  It  would  be  fai 
better  for  the  youth  to  inhale  the  deadly  poison  of 
the  upas,  than  to  mingle  in  the  society  of  one  that  is 
so  degraded  as  to  defend  the  manufacturing  or  venu- 
ing,  or  the  moderate  use  of  alcohol,  save  for  medici- 
nal purposes.     There  are  even  now  fathers,  in  the 


»204  BKAL-TIKS    OF    THK    BLIND. 

full  glare  of  light  that  is  poured  upon  this  subject,  who 
will  go  to  their  sideboard  and  cupboard,  and,  in  the 
presence  of  four  or  five  young  children,  take  down  the 
bottle — morning,  noon,  and  night,  if  not  oftener — and 
pour  out  their  dram,  smacking  their  lips,  saying  to  their 
little  ones.  It  is  had  stuff — the  most  important  truth 
they  ever  told  them,  yet  their  practice  giving  the 
lie  to  their  assertion.     Oh,  the  direful  influence  of 
such  fathers  !  better  deserving  the  name  of  monsters. 
Brandies  and  wines  disgrace  the  fashionable  parties 
that  are  given  by  those  that  would  be  respectable,  if 
it  did  not  require  too  great  a  sacrifice.     In  these  gath- 
erings the  professed  follower  of  Christ  is  found  ;  for- 
getful of  his  covenant  vows,  he  bids  God  speed  to  the 
most  infamous  practices  with  which  the  world  was 
ever  cursed.     How  long,  how  long,  O  Lord  God  Al- 
mighty, will  the  chariot  wheels  of  deliverance  delay? 
Oh,  for  a  full  redemption  ;  yea,  a  speedy  deliverance 
from  this  soul-destroying  evil!     It  may  be  asked  by 
some,  What  is  most  needed  to  bring  into  disuse  tliis 
beverage  ?     I  answer,  it  is  simply  decision  of  charac- 
ter on  the  part  of  those  that  would  elevate  man  in  the 
scale  of  his  moral  being,  and  place  him  in  the  sphere 
God  designed  him  to  move  in;  we  should  not  then 
see  him  who  had  been  the  center  of  the  fondest  hopes, 
and  along  whose  pathway  shone  the  purest  light  re- 
flected from  the  combined  virtues  of  loving  sisters, 
and  sainted  mothers'  fervent  prayers,  and  the  earnest 
entreaties  of  fathers  long  since  deceased,  and  that  one 
•>n  whom  all  these  fond  hopes  centered  become  al 


l^APHNE    8.  GILES.  205 

most  a  putrefied  mn'^.  possessing  naught  of  life  but 
the  power  of  endurance,  and  all  of  death  save  the  si- 
lence of  the  grave.  The  inebriate  should  not  be  re- 
garded with  indifference.  No  :  ratlier  let  us  rally  to 
the  rescue,  and  from  the  vortex  of  intemperance 
snatch  the  wretched  victims  who  are  constantly  being 
engulphed,  as  in  a  lake  of  molten  fire.  There  are 
scenes,  revolting  to  humanity,  constantly  coming  un- 
der our  observation,  consequent  on  the  legal  tolera- 
tion extended  to  the  venders  of  distilled  liquors. 
Moral  suasion  has  seized  the  monster,  and  the  strong 
arm  of  organized  bodies  has  endeavored  to  bind  him, 
but  has  only  succeeded  in  part.  Now,  what  shall  we 
do  ?  Shall  we  still  refuse  to  have  it  become  a  politi- 
cal question,  and  keep  it  from  our  ballot-box  and  our 
halls  of  legislation,  where  it  could  at  once  be  shorn 
of  its  strength  ?  Let  the  champions  of  temperance 
stand  undaunted  on  the.  stormy  battlements  of  this 
great  reform,  whicli  is  calculated  to  blot  out  from  the 
world  the  foulest  stain  that  ever  disgraced  humanity. 

Tlie  most  skilled  artist  has  failed  in  his  attempts  to 
delineate  upon  canvas  the  wretchedness  of  the  inebri- 
ate's family.  For  such  a  task  his  pencil  lies  broken 
before  him  ;  and  the  combined  eloquence  of  thou- 
sands, in  their  most  gra])hic  descriptions,  have  failed 
to  portray  their  woes.  Ah,  who  can  describe  with 
language,  or  illustrate  with  metaphor,  the  havoc  that 
intemperance  has  made  among  mankind  ? 

In  executing  a  descriptive  scene  of  its  abomina 
tions,  methiuks  the  acute  conceptions  of  fancy,  and 


206  BEACTTIES    OF   THE    BLIND. 

the  loftiest  flights  of  tlie  imagination,  would  be  inad- 
equate to  the  task.  Could  we  change  the  mighty 
ocean  to  paint,  transform  every  stick  into  a  brush, 
make  every  man  an  artist,  every  star  a  scaffold,  and 
the  outstretched,  boundless  sky  a  canvas ;  could  we 
take  the  dismal  clouds  for  shade,  the  frightful  light- 
ning's awful  element  for  tinge,  the  midnight  darkness 
for  drapery  of  gloom  ;  could  we  use  the  doleful  winds 
for  sighs,  the  countless  drops  of  rain  for  tears,  the  bro- 
ken music  of  the  howling  storm  for  wails,  and  shrieks, 
and  cries,  the  earthquake's  violent  shock  for  agonizing 
pains,  and  the  long,  loud,  rumbling  thunder  for  pit- 
eous, dying  groans  ;  and  could  we,  with  pious  Joshua, 
command  the  glowing  sun  to  stand  still  in  the  west, 
and  the  full,  blushing  moon  in  the  distant  east,  and 
there  wait,  while  laboring  artists  dash  the  amazing  hor- 
rors of  intemperance  on  the  expanded  sheet,  to  delin- 
eate all  its  loathsome,  horribl.e,  and  everlasting  effects, 
would  quite  exhaust  the  ocean,  wear  out  every  in- 
strument^ tire  every  artist,  and  more  than  fill  heav- 
en's immeasurable  blue  from  pole  to  pole. 


MISS  ALICE  HOLMES, 

AN  amp:rican  authoress. 

"  Oh  !  who  would  cherish  life 
And  cling  unto  tliis  heavy  clog  of  clay 

Love  this  rude  world  of  strife, 
Where  glooms  and  tempests  cloud  the  fairest  day." 

Ai.icK  Holmes  was  boru  in  the  county  of  Norfolk, 
England,  February,  1821.  Her  father,  an  enterpri- 
sing mechanic,  maintained  himself  and  family  by  the 
fruits  of  his  industry,  in  his  own  country,  until,  drawn 
into  the  broad  current  of  emigration  that  has  wafted 
Europe's  millions  to  our  shores,  he  embarked  with 
his  effects  and  family  to  seek  a  home  and  fortune  in 
the  New  World.  Bound  fur  New  York,  the  vessel  set 
sail  in  April,  3830,  and  landed  off  quarantine  in  the 
harbor  of  its  destination,  on  the  19th  of  June  follow- 
ing. On  their  passage,  to  the  terrors  of  a  long  voy- 
age, tempestuous  winds,  rolling  billows,  and  those 
inconveniences  usually  realized  in  crowded  ships, 
were  added  the  horrors  of  disease.  That  most  loath- 
some of  all  maladies,  small-pox,  made  its  appearance 
among  the  passengers,  and  among  its  subjects  was 
^he  little  Alice,  having  just  then  entered  upon  her 
ninth  summer.     When  the  passengers  disembarked. 


20R  BEAUTIES    OF   THE   BLIND. 

the  fell  disease  was  still  upon  her ;  but  she  was  per- 
mitted to  behold  the  beauties  of  the  New  World,  a 
scene,  whose  anticipation  had  filled  their  hearts  with 
raptures  of  delight,  raised  their  drooping  spirits  on 
the  boisterous  ocean,  and  influenced  them  to  leave 
dear  friends  and  country,  with  no  hope  of  ever  com- 
muning with  them  again.  But,  alas !  it  was  the  little 
suflferer's  last  view  of  the  green  earth,  land  of  prom- 
ise, clear  blue  sky,  and  glorious  sunlight,  which 
painted  upon  her  memory  an  abiding  image  of 
beauty.  She  was  taken  to  the  city  hospital,  and 
when  medical  skill  had  broken  the  fetters  of  disease, 
it  was  found  that  her  sight  was  irrecoverably  lost. 
Her  parents,  immediately  subsequent  to  landing,  took 
up  their  residence  in  Jersey  City.  Though  her  young 
and  gentle  spirit  had  not  yet  advanced  far  enough 
on  life's  rugged  journey,  fully  to  realize  the  greatness 
of  her  loss,  yet  sad  and  lonely  must  have  been  her 
condition  at  this  time.  For  she  was  a  stranger  in  a 
strange  land,  and  having  not  yet  learned  to  substitute 
other  senses  for  that  she  had  lost,  in  communicating 
with  the  physical  world,  and  thus  beguile  her  misfor- 
tune, the  long  monotonous  hours  and  days  passed 
heavily  away.  Oft  did  her  thoughts  mount  on  pin- 
ions of  fancy,  and  wing  their  way  over  the  star-lit 
Atlantic  to  her  native  cot,  and  hold  sweet  converse 
with  her  little  schoolmates,  and  the  scenes  of  her 
childhood,  now  more  bright  and  loving  than  ever. 

To  these  prospects,  she  adverts  in  the  following, 
simple,  yet  graphic  lines  : 


ALICK   HOLMKS.  200 

"Farewell  to  the  cottage,. the  garden  and  flowers, 
Where  oft  in  my  childhood  passed  frolicsome  hours  ; 
Farewell  to  the  meadow,  the  brook  and  the  trees. 
Where  the  music  of  1  irds  is  borne  on  the  breeze ; 
Farewell  to  the  lane,  the  green  hillside  and  glen. 
Whose  paths  I  have  trodden  again  and  again  ; 
Farewell,  dear  companions,  so  joyous  and  gay  ; 
For,  alas !  I  must  go  away,  far  away." 

In  January,  1837,  through  the  generosity  of  a  friend 
of  whom  she  speaks  in  the  most  glowing  terms  of 
gratitude,  Alice  became  a  pupil  of  the  New  York 
Institution  for  the  Blind.  And  by  virtue  of  an  act 
passed  by  the  New  Jersey  legislature,  in  the  ensuing 
year,  providing  for  the  sightless  youths  in  that  state 
who  chose  to  enter  the  New  York  Institute,  she  was 
enabled  to  prosecute  her  studies  there  five  years 
longer.  By  this  public  muniiicence,  she  received  a 
thorough  knowledge  of  all  the  scientific  branches,  in- 
cluded in  an  English  education.  While  at  this,  one 
of  the  noblest  monuments  of  human  benevolence, 
daily  acquiring  additional  rays  of  intellectual  light, 
that  dispel  the  heavy  gloom  of  ignorance,  and  open 
to  the  soul  pure  and  inexhaustible  fountains  of  hap- 
piness, and  associating  with  those  young  hearts  whom 
a  like  affliction  rendered  tenderly  sympathetic  and 
kind,  her  years  glided  pleasantly  away,  leaving  no 
room  for  despondency.  There  is,  perhaps,  no  period 
m  life,  of  which  we  retain  such  pleasant  recollections, 
or  around  whose  scenes  cluster  more  hallowed  associ- 
ations, than  that  of  our  school-days.  Free  from  the 
sordid  cares  and  perplexities  of  life,  ^he  ambitious 


210  HKAUITI':!*    OF    THK    BLIND. 

Student  views,  in  his  fntnre  field  of  triumph,  rich  gar 
lands  of  fame  awarded  him  by  applauding  multitudes, 
and  beholds,  in  imagination,  his  name  high  on  the 
scroll  of  fame,  as  a  hero  and  benefactor  of  his  race. 
Though  these  hopes  often  vanish  in  maturer  years, 
like  dew-drops  before  the  morning  sun,  they  form  an 
oasis  on  life's  dreary  desert,  around  which  our  thoughts 
love  to  linger  in  darker  hours. 

Miss  Holmes  left  the  Institute  at  the  expiration  of 
her  term,  in  18i4,  and  returned  to  her  friends  in 
Jei-sey  City,  where  she  has  since  resided.  Her  emo- 
tions, at  this  time,  she  has  expressed  in  the  following 
lines,  written  on  the  occasion  : 

"Adieu,  adieu,  my  long-loved  home, 

Where  genial  spirits  dwell,    • 
For  I  must. bid  thy  heartli  and  halls, 

This  day  a  sad  farewell. 
Thy  vesper-bell  will  peal  at  eve. 

But  not,  alas !  for  me  ;       . 
For  1  shall  be  alone  and  sad. 

Far,  far  away  from  thee  I 

"  Adieu,  adieu,  companions  dear, 

My  sisters,  brothers,  friends; 
This  day  completes  my  stay  with  you, 

This  day  our  union  ends. 
But  oh  I  how  can  I,  can  I  bear 

To  hear  the  death-like  knell. 
That  bids  me  tear  mj-  heart  away 

From  those  I  love  so  well  f 

**  Adieu,  adieu  to  morning  walks. 

Along  the  Hudson's  oide. 
Where  oft  among  the  rocks  we  heard 

The  music  of  the  tide : 


A  LICK    nOLMKS.  211 

And  wanderings  at  twilight  hour, 

Through  grove,  by  hill  and  stream. 
Tlint  I  have  ever  fondly  prized. 

But  dearer  now  they  seem." 

By  her  needle  and  other  handiwork,  she  has  since 
earned  for  herself  a  respectable  livelihood,  and  has 
only  turned  her  attention  to  poetry  in  her  leisure  hours, 
to  avert  the  dark  shadows  of  gloom  that  might  other- 
wise have  mantled  her  spirit.  After  repeated  solici- 
tations of  friends,  she  consented  to  publish  a  small  col- 
lection of  her  poems,  which  made  its  appearance  in 
1849.  For  this  work,  she  claims  neither  literary  nor 
poetic  merit ;  but  modestly  expresses  the  hope  that  a 
good  intention  may  atone  for  many  faults.  The  lowly 
rank  which  she  claims  for  her  verses,  is,  no  doubt, 
their  proper  one  in  the  scale  of  refined  literature ;  we 
could,  however,  mention  a  catalogue  of  rhymers,  in 
full  possession  of  sight,  who  have  found  less  favor  with 
the  muses  than  this  modest  authoress ;  and  j-et  the}' 
flourish,  their  rusty  pens,  and  rack  their  conceited 
brains  over  subjects  of  the  greatest  magnitude,  wnth 
an  air  of  importance,  as  if  by  the  ancient  Britons' 
theory  of  transmigration,  they  possessed  the  soul  of 
Byron,  Shakspeare,  or  Milton.  Such  presumption 
makes  faults  intolerable  ;  but  true  modesty  in  an  au 
thor,  like  juvenile  inexperience,  moves  us  rather  to 
apologize  than  censure.  We  will,  however,  allow  our 
readers  to  judge  for  themselves,  respecting  the  poetic 
merits  of  Miss  Holmes,  from  the  iew  following  ex- 
tracts : 


112  BKAUTIES   OF   THK    BLINI>. 


FAITHFUL  LOVE. 


The  clear  evening  sky  was  mantled  in  blue, 

And  flow'rets  that  slept  were  covered  with  dew  ; 

Laden  with  perfume,  »  soft  summer  breeze. 

Came  floating  along  tlirough  whispering  trees  ; 

Enthroned  above,  the  fair  queen  of  night 

Was  tinging  the  sea  with  silvery  light, 

And  bright  gleaming  stars  that  circled  her  bi<tw. 

Glanced  down  amazed  on  the  beauties  below. 

'Neath  ocean's  calm  breast,  its  billows  and  wav»-8 

Had  sunk  to  repose  in  the  coral  caves : 

Nature  seemed  praising  in  silence  her  Lord, 

Who  gave  to  her  birth  by  power  of  His  word. 

Such  jvas  the  fair  evening,  so  lonel}'  and  still 

When  by  the  side  of  a  clear  mountain  rill, 

'Neath  an  old  oak's  boughs  that  were  waving  there 

A  maiden  breathed  for  her  lover  a  prayer ; 

For  liither  had  been  their  chosen  retreat, 

At  still  even-tide,  when  fond  lovers  meet. 

Now  lonely  each  night  she  knelt  by  that  stream. 

Whose  murmurings  low  seemed  charmed  with  her  th-mt 

As  softly  she  spoke,  in  tones  sweet  and  clear, 

One  might  have  fancied  a  seraph  was  near. 

While  her  hands  were  clasped  on  her  snow-white  br«;a*U 

A  small  golden  heart  to  her  own  was  pressed. 

Which  she  had  received  as  a  parting  pledge. 

'Neath  the  old  oak  tree  at  that  streamlet's  edge. 

Solemn  and  pure  was  the  prajerof  love, 

That  rose  from  her  heart  to  the  throne  above, 

For  his  safe  return,  who  was  dearer  far 

Than  the  morning  sun  or  evening  star. 

His  duty  was  now  in  a  distant  land. 
To  hazai*d  his  life  with  a  noble  band, 
In  the  toils  of  war  he  was  called  to  share, 
And  a  soldier's  part  for  his  country  bear. 
A  tear-drop  rolled  from  her  soft  blue  eye. 
Am  upward  she  gazed  at  the  starlit  sky. 


ALICE   HOLMES.  218 

Watching  perchance  some  angel's  flight 

That  bore  on  hi?  wings  her  request  e^ch  night; 

For  her's  was  the  prayer  of  faitii  and  of  love, 

That  ever  finds  grace  in  that  world  above. 

Though  heaven  may  please  awhile  to  delaj 

The  favor  that's  sought  from  day  to  day, 

Still  it  h 'darkens  and  hears,  and  will  answer  give, 

To  such  as  by  faith  its  bounties  receive. 

And  80  did  it  prove  with  that  maiden  fair. 

Whose  pure  faith  banished  all  gloom  and  despair. 

So.  at  the  same  hour,  the  next  even-tide, 
Theie  knelt  by  her  one  that  called  her  his  bride. 
Who  had  hastened  from  war  to  fulfill  his  vow. 
While  victory's  wreath  was  fresh  on  his  brow. 
And,  hand  joined  in  hand,  by  that  mountain  streiUiii 
They  sat  tx>  rehearse  love's  long-cherished  dream  •, 
And  hovering  round  came  angels  cf  Mght 
Soft  whis}>ering  joy,  then  winging  the;;  ..»4 
The  bliss  of  that  hour  was  dear  to  each  hea:  ik 
That  love  had  entwined,  now  never  to  part 


A  SOLILOQUY. 

My  harp  is  on  the  willow  hung; 

To  me  the  morning  brings  no  light  * 
No  ray  of  sun  or  moon  I  see. 

But  one  unchanging  night 

I  cannot  view  those  gem-like  stars. 
That  sparkle  in  the  ethereal  skies ; 

Nor  trace  the  clouds  with  golden  fringe, 
That  o'er  the  sunset  riso. 

Nor  gaze  upon  the  blooming  flowero, 
That  make  the  face  of  nature  gay  ; 

Nor  watch  the  ocean's  sparkling  waves. 
Where  dancing  sunbeams  play. 


214  BEAUTIES  OF  THK  lil.IXD. 

To  me  the  variegated  earth, 

Would  seem  one  dark,  unbroken  plain, 

[f,  in  my  heart,  I  had  not  hid 

Brieht  visions  that  oft  come  again, 

For  I  through  nine  fair  summers  passed. 
With  scarce  a  cloud  to  shade  my  wa^. 

And  loved  the  face  of  nature  more. 
With  each  returning  day. 

But  ere  a  tenth  had  fully  come. 

My  gladsome  heart  was  wrapt  iu  glooic 

Jm\  I  was  banished  from  the  light. 
Condemned  to  a  living  toirib, — 

Where  even  Hope's  fair  star  grows  dim. 
With  clouds  that  o'er  my  8[>ir't  rise. 

And  hide  the  gleams  of  holy  light, 
Imparted  from  the  skies. 

But  oh  !  I  will  with  patience  bear 
A  grief  which  none  can  feel  or  know 

But  those  for  whom  it  is  ordained. 
By  him  who  wills  it  so. 

And  faith,  not  light  shall  be  my  gu-d« 
To  Canaan's  fair,  celestial  shore, 

Where  faith  is  lost  in  perfect  sigbK 
Aiid  darkness  is  no  more. 


ALICE   HOLMK8.  216 


ON  MORNING. 


Oh,  sweet  is  the  dawning  hour, 
When  dews  like  holy  incense  iist^ 

And  waft  to  God,  on  mystic  wings, 
Earth's  morning  sacrifice. 

Ai«tl  fair  Aurora  tints 

The  azure  sky  with  golden  lignt^ 
And  chases  far  the  sable  clouds, 

That  vail  the  world  in  night. 

And  angels  bright,  that  nightly  watch. 

While  earth  reposing  lies. 
Spreading  their  pure  celestial  wings. 

Mount  swiftly  to  the  skies. 

Or  rosy  twilight  fades 

Before  the  gorgeous  king  of  day. 
Who  from  the  east  rejoicing  comes 

In  glorious  array. 

And  gentle  zephyrs  kiss 

Dew-drops  from  the  blushing  flowers, 
That  waking  shed  their  odors  sweet, 

Through  fields  and  summer  bowers. 

And  on  the  ocean's  wave 

Sunbeams  like  golden  shadows  gleaia, 
And  laughing  breezes  catch  the  spra}' 

That  leaps  from  mountain  stream. 

And  to  the  huntsman's  horn. 
The  echoing  rocks  and  hills  reply. 

And  beasts  of  prey  that  nightly  prowl. 
Like  falcons  swift  go  b}*. 

And  insect  voices  greet, 

With  songs  of  praise  the  waking  daj 
And  featheied  songsters  warble  sweet, 

To  God  their  morning  lay. 


216  beautip:8  of  tup:  ulind. 

And  man  from  sweet  repose, 
Joyful  again  to  see  the  light, 

Goes  forth  to  toil  with  cheerful  h<.'ar«s 
Till  day  gives  place  to  night 

O  sweet  and  hallowed  time. 
Let  thy  peaceful  influence  rest 

On  all  the  hours  that  shall  Bucce«<l 
T<v  tills  tbat  thou  bast  bleMeiL 


ACHIEVEMEIsTS  OF  THE  BLIND  IN  THE  LEARNEU 
PROFESSIONS. 

SERIES  I.— SECTION  L 

PROGRESS    IN   THE  SCIENCES. 

Having  given  in  the  preceding  pages  a  somewhat 
detailed  account  of  a  sufficient  number  of  authors, 
and  extracts  from  their  writings,  to  establish  the  lit- 
erary character  of  the  blind,  we  next  proceed  to  no- 
tice in  a  more  summary  manner,  the  success  of  this 
class  in  the  scientific  pursuits.  As  the  hydrographi- 
cal  chart  points  out  to  the  mariner  a  safe  course  over 
the  trackless  ocean,  and  national  history  affords  to 
the  legislator  the  experience  of  past  ages,  so  the  biog- 
raphies of  those  who  have  risen  against  every  tide  of 
opposition  from  a  lowly  station  in  life  to  one  of  honor 
and  distinction,  serve  in  a  powerful  manner  to  stimu- 
late others  to  grapple  with  similar  difficulties.  What- 
ever may  be  the  impediments  in  our  course,  if  we 
have  the  assurance  that  others,  under  like  circum- 
stances, have  surmounted  them,  and  arrived  in  tri- 
umph at  the  mark  to  which  we  aspire,  the  bugbeai 
of  impossibility  is  removed,  and  the  timid  heart,  gath- 
ering courage,  moves  forward,  cheered  by  the  way- 


318  BEAUTIES    OF   THE   BLIND. 

marks  of  predecessors.  But  more  especially  is  this 
true  of  the  blind,  than  anj  other  class  of  mankind. 

All  tlie  higher  institutions  of  learning,  with  their  ex- 
perimenting laboratories,  improvements  in  the  arts,  and 
an  application  of  natural  agents  to  the  multifarious  la- 
bor-saving machineries  that  have  transform ?d  the  civ- 
ilized vsrorld  into  one  spacious  bee-hive,  these  are  all 
especially  adapted  to  the  seeing.  And  the  blind 
must  still  depend  upon  their  own  experience,  and 
that  of  their  predecessors,  to  force  from  society  and 
nature  the  means  by  which  to  supply  their  daily 
wauts,  and  to  exercise  their  genius  in  the  arts  and 
higher  pursuits  of  knowledge.  The  examples  we 
shall  give  in  these  series  are  so  diversified,  (we  are 
happy  to  say,)  as  to  furnish  every  blind  youth  with  a 
pattern  or  example,  into  whatever  worthy  pursuit  his 
genius  or  taste  may  incline  him. 

The  first  notable  character  under  this  head  of 
which  history  informs  us,  is  Diodotus.  a  stoic  philos- 
opher, who  lived  about  one  hundred  yeai*s  B.  C.  .He 
was  the  preceptor  of  Cicero,  the  Koman  orator,  in 
Greek  literature  and  geometry,  and  for  many  years 
his  intimate  friend.  lie  was  ever  assiduous  in  the 
study  of  philosophj",  and  eminently  successful  as  a 
teacher  of  geometry  ;  a  thing,  says  Cicero,  which  one 
would  think  scarcely  possible  for  a  blind  man  to  do, 
yet  would  he  direct  his  pupils  where  every  line  was 
to  be  drawn  just  as  exactly  as  if  he  had  the  use  of  his 
eyes. 

Another  Roman,  named  Aufidius  Bassus,  who  lo»t 


THEIR    ACHIETEMENT8.  219 

his  sight  in  earlj'  youth,  was  famous  in  liis  time  for 
attainments  in  philosophy,  geometry,  and  knowledge 
of  general  literature.  He  was  also  the  author  of  an 
excellent  Greek  history. 

But  antiquity  can  boast  of  no  greater  genius  than 
DiDTMCS,  of  Alexandria,  who  flourished  in  the  fourth 
century.  This  distinguished  man,  who  lost  his  sight 
at  four  years  of  age,  is  known  to  us  principally  as  a 
theological  writer.  But  we  are  informed  by  his  pu- 
pil, St.  Jerome,  that  he  also  distinguished  himself  at 
the  school  of  Alexandria,  in  every  department  of 
science  then  conceived  to  constitute  the  whole  field  of 
human  learning.  He  was  so  great  a  proficient  in  the- 
ology that  he  was  chosen  to,  and  long  filled,  the  chair 
in  the  famous  divinity  school  at  Alexandria.  Elis 
high  reputation  secured  for  him  many  scholars,  some 
of  whom  are  known  as  among  the  most  distinguished 
writers  of  that  perfod.  He  was  the  author  of  numer- 
ous works,  a  catalogue  of  which  is  preserved  in  the 
writings  of  St.  Jerome.  His  treatise  on  the  Holy 
Spirit  (a  Latin  translation  of  which  only  remains)  is 
said  to  be  the  best  ever  possesse*!  by  the  Christian 
world.  He  died  in  .398,  aged  eighty-five  years.  So 
great  was  his  fame  abn)ad,  that  St.  Anthony  (excited 
by  the  same  curiosity  that  moved  the  queen  of  She- 
bah  to  visit  Solomon)  came  from  the  desert  to  satisfy 
himself  concerning  the  wisdom  and  sanctity  of  this 
famous  philosopher,  who  being  informed  by  Didymas 
in  answer  to  his  questions,  that  he  deplored  his  de- 
privation, notwithstanding  his  attainments,  the  saint 


250  BKAtrrtKS   OF  THK   BLtNT). 

was  mncti  surprised,  and  marveled  that  so  wise  a  man 
ghonld  lament  the  loss  of  a  faculty,  "  which  we  only 
possess  "  (as  he  chose  to  express  it)  "  in  common  with 
the  gnats  and  ants." 

Ja.mes  Shegkins,  a  native  of  Shrandorf,  in  "Wirtera- 
bnrg,  who  lived  in  the  latter  part  of  the  sixteenth 
century,  seems  to  have  been  a  character  more  after 
the  taste  of  Anthony.  This  learned  German,  having 
lost  his  sight  In  early  life,  was  so  little  sensible  of  his 
privation,  that  he  refused  to  be  couched  by  an  oculist 
who  assured  him  that  the  operation  would  prove  suc- 
cessful, in  order,  as  he  said,  not  to  be  obliged  to  see 
many  things  that  might  appear  odious  and  ridiculous 
— a  decision  not  altogether  absurd  for  one  whose 
taste  and  habits  of  life  liiid  been  so  thoroughly  assim- 
ilated to  his  condition,  and  who  had  found  such  un- 
bounded resources  of  pleasure  in  ranging  the  fields 
of  science  by  methods  of  his  own  invention.  He 
taught  philosophy  and  medicine  with  eminent  suc- 
cess at  Tubengen,  for  a  terra  of  about  thirteen  years. 
He  died  in  1587,  leaving  many  treatises  on  different 
subjects  in  philosophy,  medicine,  and  controversy. 

To  the  preceding  we  may  add  that  of  the  Count  de 
Haoan,  who  was  born  in  the  beginning  of  the  seven- 
teenth century.  Having  entered  the  army  at  thd 
early  age  of  twelve  years,  he  lost  his  left  eye  at  sev- 
enteen ;  he  still,  however,  pursued  his  profession  with 
unabated  ardor,  and  distinguished  himself  by  many 
acts  of  brilliant  courage.  At  last,  when  about  to  be 
sent  into  Portugal  with  the  rank  of  field-marshal,  he 


TUEIK   ACHIEVEMENTS.  221 

was  seized  with  an  illness  which  deprived  him  of 
sight  in  his  remaining  eye,  in  the  thirty-eightli  year 
of  his  age.  He  had  always  been  attached  to  mathe- 
matics, and  his  misfortune  being  no  impediment  in 
the  pursuit  of  this  science,  he  now  earnestly  devoted 
himself  to  the  study  of  geometry,  with  a  view  to  im- 
prove the  system  of  fortification,  on  which  subject  he 
wrote  an  interesting  and  important  work.  During  a 
period  of  twenty  years,  subsequent  to  his  blindness, 
he  gave  to  the  world  a  variety  of  pu])lications,  among 
the  most  important  of  which  may  be  mentioned  Ge- 
ometrical Theorems  and  Astronomical  Tables.  He 
was  also  the  author  of  a  rare  book  called  "  An  His- 
torical and  Geographical  account  of  the  River  Ama- 
zon," which  is  remarkable  as  containing  a  chart,  as- 
serted to  have  been  made  by  himself,  after  he  became 
blind. 

The  study  of  mathematics  seems  in  every  enlight 
ened  age  to  have  occupied  the  most  ingenious  and 
master  minds,  and  no  science  luis  revealed  to  the 
world  more  essential  facts,  or  opened  more  sublime 
fields  of  contemplation.  In  the  development  of  this 
sublime  branch  of  human  learning,  the  blind  may 
claim,  we  think  without  arrogance,  a  full  share  of 
honor.  In  all  the  annals  of  self-educated  and  inge- 
nious characters,  there  is  none  more  justly  claiming 
our  admiration  than  Dr.  Nicholas  Saunderson,  who 
we  shall  next  briefly  notice. 

This  great  man  was  born  at  Thurlston,  in  York- 
shire, in  1682,  and  when  but  twelve  months  of  age  he 


222  BEATTTIES    OK   THK    BLIND. 

was  totally  deprived  of  sight  by  small-pox.  Early 
evincing  promising  abilities,  he  was  sent  to  the  free 
school  at  Pennistone,  where  he  soon  distinguished 
himself  by  his  proficiency  in  Greek  and  Latin.  This 
enabled  him  to  become  acquainted  with  the  works 
of  Euclid,  Archimedes,  and  Diophantes,  which  he  af- 
terward diligently  studied  in  their  originals.  His 
father  being  unable  to  afford  hira  the  pecuniary 
means  requisite  for  the  prosecution  of  his  studies  at  a 
university.  Dr.  ITettleton,  and  Kichard  West,  Esq., 
who  were  great  lovers  of  mathematics,  having  noticed 
the  uncommon  genius  of  young  Saunderson  in  this 
science,  gave  him  instruction  in  algebi-a  and  geome- 
try. Ills  friends  discovering  his  clear  and  perspicu- 
au8  manner  of  C(>mmunicating  his  ideas,  suggested 
die  propriety  of  his  attending  the  University  of  Cam- 
brige,  as  a  teacher  of  mathematics,  to  which  his  own 
inclination  strongly  led  him.  Accordingly,  in  1707, 
when  in  the  twenty-tifth  year  of  his  age,  he  made  his 
appearance  in  that  university  under  the  protection  of 
a  friend,  one  of  the  fellows  of  Christ's  College.  That 
society  with  great  generosity  immediately  allotted 
him  a  chamber,  admi*ted  him  to  the  use  of  their  li- 
brary, and  gave  him  every  other  accommodation  in 
their  power  for  the  prosecution  of  his  studies. 

Mr.  Whiston,  successor  to  Sir  Isaac  Newton  in  the 
Lucasian  professorship  of  mathematics  in  that  univcr- 
eity,  instead  of  manifesting  jealousy  of  one  whom  a 
less  generous  mind  might  not  unnaturally  have  re- 
garded ks  a  rival,  sought  in  every  way  to  encourage 


THEIE   ACHIEVEMENTS.  223 

Mr.  Saunderson  in  his  undertaking.  While  thus  en- 
gaged in  explaining  the  principles  of  the  Newtonian 
philosophy  with  astonishing  success,  he  became  ac- 
quainted with  its  illustrious  author.*  And  when  Mr 
Whiston  was  removed  from  his  chair,  Sir  Isaac  New- 
ton exerted  his  utmost  influence  to  obtain  the  vacant 
situation  for  Saunderson.  Accordingly  the  crown  is- 
sued a  mandate  conferring  upon  him  the  degree  of 
Master  of  Arts,  as  a  necessary  preliminary  to  his 
election. 

On  his  inauguration,  he  delivered  a  Latin  address 
with  extraordinary  taste  and  elegance.  From  this 
time  he  applied  himself  closely  to  the  reading  of  lec- 
tures, and  gave  up  his  whole  time  to  his  pupils.  He" 
shortly  afterward  married  the  daughter  of  Rev  Mr. 
Dickens,  by  whom  he  had  a  son  and  a  daughter. 
When  George  II.  visited  the  college,  in  1728,  among 
other  tokens  of  marked  respect,  Saunderson  was,  by 
the  king's  command,  created  Doctor  of  Laws,  and 
was  admitted  a  mcmbei  of  the  Royal  Society,  in  1736. 
He  died  on  the  19th  of  April,  1739,  aged  fift3'-sevec 
years.  Notwithstanding  his  almost  unj)aralleled  as- 
siduity in  the  studies  of  his  professorship,  he  found 
time  to  prej>are  several  works  on  algebra,  and  one  on 
fluxions,  which,  together  with  the  works  of  Euler, 

•Saunderson  commenced  his  jjreleetions  with  Newton's  optics. 
"The  subject  itself  whicli  he  thus  chose,  independently  of  the  mau- 
ner  in  which  he  treated  it,  was  well  calculated  to  attract  notice, 
few  things  seeming  at  first  view  more  extraordinary  than  that  a 
man,  who  had  been  blind  almost  from  his  birth,  should  be  able  Uj 
ezpLaiu  the  j>lienomena  and  expound  the  doctrines  of  light" 


224  BEAUTIES   OF   THE    BLIND. 

^\  .11  ever  stand  as  lasting  monuments  of  the  perse 
veranee  and  genius  of  the  Wind. 

It  may  seem  unjust  to  some  of  our  readers  to  in- 
troduce Euler  in  tins  connection,  from  the  fact  that 
he  acquired  his  knowledge  of  the  sciences,  and  mucb 
of  his  fame  previous  to  his  deprivation.  But  it  must 
he  remembered  that  the  principal  object  of  this  work 
is  to  demonstrate  that  a  want  of  sight  alone  does  nei- 
ther preclude  the  acquisition  of  knowleflge,  nor,  af- 
ter acquired,  its  practical  exerdse  in  any  of  the 
higher  branches  of  science.  The  unremitting  and' 
successful  labors  of  this  great  man,  after  his' blind- 
ness, tend  strikingly  to  illustrate  how  little,genius  or 
the  progress  of  mind  is  depending  on  mere  outward 
or  physical  circumstances. 

Leonard  Euler  who  flourished  in  the  early  part 
of  the  eighteenth  century,  after  numerous  brilliant 
achievements  in  the  science  of  mathematics^  lost  his 
sight  from  excessive  application,  in  the  fifty-ninth 
year  of  his  age,  while  professor  of  mathematics  at  St 
Petersburg.  While  in  this  condition,  he  published 
his  famous  work,  "  Elements  of  Alg jbra,"  which  has 
been  translated  into  every  European  language. 
Shortly  after  this  he  was  elected  a  foreign  member 
of  the  Parisian  Academy  of  Science,  and  an  academ- 
ical prize  was  adjudged  to  three  of  liis  memoirs,  con- 
cerning the  inequalities  in  the  motions  of  the  planets. 
The  two  prize  questions  proposed  by  the  same  acad- 
emy for  1770  and  1772,  were  designed  to  obtain  froo) 
the  labors  of  astronomers  a  more  j>erfect  theory  of  the 


THKIK    ACHlEVEMP:N'rS.  225 

moon.     Enler,  assisted  by  liis  eldest  son,  was  a  com 
petitor  for  these  prizes,  and  obtained  thetn  both. 

Ilis  writings  are  so  numerous  that  a  mere  catalogue 
of  them  would  till  several  of  these  pages.  They  are 
preserved  by  the  royal  societies  of  London,  Berlin, 
Paris,  Vienna,  and  Stockholm,  of  all  of  which  he  was 
a  member.  Among  the  numerous  and  elaborate  pro- 
ductions of  his  genius,  subsequent  to  loss  of  sight, 
was  his  "  New  Theory  of  the  Moon's  Motions,"  with 
its  accompanying  tables,  which  has  been  deemed  by 
astronomers,  in  exactness  of  computation,  one  of  the 
most  remarkable  achievements  of  the  human  intel- 
lect. His  brilliant  career  was  terminated  by  apo- 
plexy wiiile  amusing  himself  at  tea  with  one  of  his 
grand-children,  in  1783,  in  the  seventy-sixth  year  of 
his  age. 

Another  illustrious  character  in  the  annals  of  pri- 
vation, with  whose  name  we  are  happy  to  ornament 
the  pages  of  this  work,  is  that  of  John  Gough.  This 
distinguised  philosopher  and  mathematician  was  the 
son  of  a  glover,  of  Kendal,  and  lost  his  sight  by  small- 
pox, in  1752,  before  he  had  completed  his  third  year. 
When  six  yeare  of  age,  he  commenced  the  study  of 
English  grammar,  at  a  school  in  his  native  town,  and 
when  about  twelve  years  of  age,  under  the  care  of  a 
proficient  teacher,  he  made  rapid  progress  in  the  lan- 
guages, natural  philosophy,  and  classic  literature. 
The  science  of  zoology  was  one  for  which  he  almost 
from  infancy  manifested  great  partiality,  and  he  now 
began  to  enlarge  his  knowledge  of  organic  bodies,  by 


226  BEAUTIES   OF  THE   BtlND. 

extending  liis  researches  from  the  animal  to  the  vege- 
table kingdom.  By  devoting  to  botanical  pursuits  all 
the  time  he  could  spare  from  the  regular  studies  of 
the  school,  he  soon  became  enabled  to  classify,  with 
great  accuracy,  all  the  plants  which  came  under 
liis  notice. 

As  a  substitute  for  the  eye,  in  discriminating  be- 
tween the  finer  species,  he  used  the  tip  of  his  tongue, 
which  he  applied  to  their  several  parts,  while  he 
readily  recognized  ordinary  plants  by  the  touch  of 
his  fingers.  So  perfect  a  knowledge  did  he  acquire 
of  this  science,  and  so  tenacious  was  his  memory,  that 
at  one  time,  near  the  close  of  his  life,  when  a  rare  plant 
was  put  into  his  hands,  he  immediately  called  it  by 
its  proper  name,  observing  that  he  never  met  with 
but  one  specimen  of  it  previously,  and  that  was  fifty 
years  ago. 

Mr.  Gough's  attention  was  firet  turned  to  experi- 
mental philosophy,  in  the  year  1772,  and  by  studying 
with  characteristic  assiduity  the  works  of  Mr.  Boyle, 
he  soon  obtained  a  knowledge  of  the  specific  gravity 
of  fluids,  hydrostatics,  and  pneumatics.  Some  time 
subsequent  he  entered  upon  the  study  of  mathemat- 
ics, under  a  celebrated  instructor  at  Mungriodale. 
Here  he  not  only  acquired  a  taste  for  this  science,  but 
laid  the  foundation  of  those  high  attainments  which 
subsequently  entitled  him  to  a  place  among  the  most 
distinguished  mathematicians  of  his  age.  Of  his  suc- 
cess in  afterlife,  as  a  teacher  of  philosophy  and  malh- 
ematics,   we   have  the  most   abundant   proof.     For 


THEIR    ACHIEVEMENTS.  227 

among  the  limited  number  of  his  pupils,  an  unusual 
proportion  became  eminent  in  tliose  sciences;  among 
which  occur  the  names  of  Whewell,  afterward  tutor 
of  Trinity  College ;  Mr.  Dawes,  tutor  of  Downing 
College  ;  Mr.  Gaskin,  of  Jesus  Cohege,  and  Mr.  King, 
tutor  of  Queen's  College,  one  of  the  most  distinguished 
mathematicians  of  his  age  ;  and  the  eminent  philoso- 
pher, Joha  Dalton,  president  of  the  Manchester  Philo- 
sophical Society,  was  also  four  or  live  years  under  his 
instruction.  Mr.  Gough  was  actively  engaged  as  a 
teacher,  and  in  his  usual  philosophic  investigations 
to  the  close  of  tlKJ  year  1823,  when  declining  powers 
began  to  be  visible  to  his  friends.  He  died  July  27tli, 
1825,  in  the  sixty-eighth  year  of  his  age.  His  numer- 
ous essays  published  in  the  memoirs  of  the  "  Man- 
chester Literary  and  Philosophical  Societies,"  have 
been  highly  valued  by  the  most  competent  judges; 
and  are  said  to  contain  decisive  evidence  of  the  acntc- 
ness  of  his  intellect  and  accuracy  of  knowledge  in  al- 
most every  department  of  science. 

Dr.  Henry  Mo  yes,  who  was  the  wonder  and  admi- 
ration of  every  country  he  visited,  like  the  subject  of 
the  foregoing  sketch,  lost  his  sight  when  but  three 
years  of  age.  He  was  the  first  person  of  his  class 
who  ventured  to  conduct  experiments  in  chemistry 
in  connection  with  lectures  upon  that  science. 

After  leaving  college,  he  commenced  a  series  of 
lectures  on  the  "  Theory  and  Practice  of  Music,"  ut 
•Edinburgh  ;  but  not  meeting  with  sufficient  encour- 
agement, he  next  turned  his  attention  to  natural  and 


228  BKAUTii:s  OF  the  blind. 

experimental  philosophy,  which  presented  an  exten- 
sive field  for  the  exercise  of  his  talents.  Ilis  lectures 
were  always  of  the  most  interesting  character,  and 
his  audiences  large  and  respectable.  Being  of  a  rest- 
less disposition,  and  fond  of  traveling,  he  left  Scot- 
land in  1779,  for  England,  and  from  thence  sailed  for 
the  United  States,  where  he  took  his  degree  from  one 
of  her  colleges.  In  the  summer  of  1785  he  made  a 
tour  of  the  Union,  and  was  everywhere  courteously 
received  by  the  lovers  of  science. 

The  following  paragraph  respecting  him  appeared 
in  one  of  our  public  journals  of  that  day :  "  The  cel- 
ebrated Dr.  Moyes,  though  blind,  delivered  a  lecture 
npon  optics,  in  which  he  delineated  the  properties  of 
light  and  shade,  and  also  gave  an  astonishing  illus- 
tration of  the  power  of  touch.  A  highly  polished 
plate  of  steel  was  presented  to  him,  with  the  stroke 
of  an  etching  tool  so  minutely  engraved  on  it,  that  it 
was  invisible  to  the  naked  eye,  and  only  discoverable 
by  a  powerful  magnifying  glass ;  with  his  fingers, 
he  discovered  the  extent  and  measured  the  lens:th  of 
the  line.  Dr.  Moyes  informed  us,  that,  being  over- 
turned in  a  stage-coach  one  dark,  rainy  evening,  in 
England,  the  carriage  and  four  horses  thrown  into  a 
iitch,  the  passengers  and  driver,  with  two  eyes 
apiece,'  were  obliged  to  apply  to  him  who  had  no 
eyes,  for  assistance  in  extricating  the  horses.  '  As 
for  me,'  said  lie,  '  after  I  had  recovered  from  the  as- 
tonishment of  the  fall,  and  discovered  that  I  had  es-- 
caped  unhurt,  I  was  quite  at  home  in  the  dark  ditch. 


THEIK    ACHIEVEMEN'ITS.  229 

The  inversion  of  tire  order  of  tliinjjs  was  amnsinff.  I, 
that  was  obliged  to  be  led  about  like  a  child,  in  the 
glaring  sun,  was  now  directing  eight  persons  to  pull 
here  and  haul  there,  with  all  the  dexterity  and  ac- 
tivity of  a  man-of-war's  boatgwain.'" 

After  Dr.  Moyes  returned  to  his  native  land  he  vis- 
ited Ireland,  and  was  there  received  with  the  respect 
due  to  his  great  merit.  When  his  desire  for  travel- 
ing was  satiated,  he  settled  at  Manchester,  with  the 
view  there  to  spend  the  remainder  of  his  days.  Here 
he  had  access  to  numerous  and  well  selected  libra- 
ries, and  was  elected  a  member  of  the  Manchester 
Philosophical  Society.  He  enriched  its  collection  by 
several  valuable  papers  on  chemistry,  and  many  other 
branches  of  physical  science. 

This  extraordinary  man,  after  spending  a  studious 
life  of  fifty-seven  years,  during  which  he  acquired  a 
thorough  knowledge  of  the  ancient  languages,  music, 
algebra,  geometry,  chemistry,  mechanics,  optics,  as- 
tronomy, and  other  departments  of  natural  science, 
paid  the  debt  of  nature  August  10th,  1807. 

Alexander  Davidson,  cotemporary  with  Dr.  Moyes, 
who  had  lost  his  sight  before  the  completion  of  his 
seventh  year,  stimulated  by  the  success  of  the  latter, 
entered  upon  a  similar  career.  The  parents  of  young 
Davidson,  not  willing  to  allow  the  calamity  which 
thus  early  befel  their  son  to  crush  the  fond  hopes 
which  his  precocity  had  inspired,  continued  sending 
him  to  the  school  in  his  native  village,  (Dalkeith, 
Scotland,)  where,  under   the   instruction   of  a  kind 


230  BEAUTIES   tF   THE   BUND. 

teacher,  together  with  the  assistance  of  a  lad,  he  pro- 
ceeded through  the  Latin  classics,  committing  to 
memory  the  text  of  each  author,  as  well  as  the  ar- 
rangement of  syntax  and  the  vernacular  translation. 

Laborious  and  unceasi«g  were  the  toils  he  had  thus 
to  undergo,  but  his  powers  seemed  to  expand  in  a  de- 
gree proportioned  to  the  burden  they  had  to  sustain. 
He  soon,  however,  began  to  experience  an  ample  re- 
ward for  all  his  labors,  in  the  access  which  they  gave 
him  to  the  finest  models  of  literature  and  taste,  to 
exc^mples  of  the  most  fascinating  creations  of  the  im- 
agination, to  the  most  delicate  application  of  the 
powers  of  language,  and  to  the  exhibition  of  common 
objects,  through  the  splendid  medium  with  which 
genius  alone  can  invest  them. 

On  leaving  this  school,  he  entered  the  Edinburgh 
University,  where  he  became  a  favorite  pupil  of  the 
learned  Dugald  Stewart.  His  studies  during  this 
course  were  conducted  with  a  view  to  prepare  him 
for  the  ministry  ;  but  having  passed  through  all  the 
trials  and  exercises  prerequisite  to  taking  ordere, 
warm  debates  arose  among  the  judges,  (perhaps  as 
blind  morally  as  Davidson  was  physically,)  whether 
his  misfortune  did  not  altogether  disqualify  him  for 
an  active  charge.  Their  decision  being  unfavorable,  he 
turned  his  attention  to  natural  philosophy  and  chem- 
istry, under  the  instruction  of  Dr.  Black,  a  celebrated 
chemist.  Mr.  Davidson  commenced  his  career  as  a 
public  lecturer,  in  Edinburgh,  where  his  previous 
high  reputation  as  a  college  student  drew  around  him 


THBIB   ACUIEVKMENTS.  231 

many  friends.  From  tlience  he  made  a  tour  of  Scot- 
land, delivering  a  course  of  lectures  in  each  village 
and  city  he  visited,  with  remarkable  ability  and  suc- 
cess. He  invented  a  very  important  apparatus  for 
relieving  mining  pits  of  their  tire-damp,  or  carbonic 
acid  gas.  Dr.  Davidson  was  twice  married,  and  both 
ladies  aided  him  in  his  experiments,  with  a  neatness 
and  grace  that  excited  general  admiration. 

Death  closed  the  labors  of  this  amiable  and  ac- 
complished philosopher  in  the  autumn  of  1826. 

To  these  great  names  we  may  add,  without  descend- 
ing in  the  scale  of  merit,  that  of  our  own  Nklson, 
professor  of  classics  in  Rutger's  College,  New  Jer- 
sey. We  find  a  sketch  of  this  eminent  and  accom- 
plished scholar  in  the  memoirs  of  Rev.  Dr.  Griffin, 
and  as  we  possess  no  additional  facts  concerning  him, 
we  give  from  it  the  following  brief  extract : 

"  The  life  of  Mr.  !N"elson  was  a  striking  exemplifi- 
cation of  that  resolution  which  conquers  fortune. 
Total  blindness,  after  a  long  and  gradual  advance, 
came  upon  him  about  his  twentieth  year,  when  termi- 
nating his  college  course.  It  found  him  poor,  and 
left  him,  to  all  appearance,  both  penniless  and 
wretched,  with  two  sistei-s  to  maintain  ;  without 
money,  without  friends,  without  a  profession,  and 
without  sight.  Under  such  an  accumulation  of 
griefs,  most  minds  would  have  sunk,  but  with  him  it 
was  otherwise ;  at  all  times  proud  and  resolute,  his 
spirit  rose  at  once  into  what  might  well  be  termed  a 
fierceness,  and  independence,  and  he  resolved  within 


232  BEAUTIES    OF   TUE    j«LlAu. 

himself  to  be  indebted  for  support  to  no  exertions  but 
his  own.  His  classical  education,  which,  owing  to  his 
feeble  vision,  had  been  necessarily  imperfect,  he  now 
determined  to  complete,  and  immediately  entered 
upon  the  apparently  hopeless  task,  with  a  view  to  fit 
himself  as  a  teacher  of  youth.  lie  instructed  his  sis- 
ters in  the  pronunciation  of  Greek  and  Latin,  and  em- 
ployed one  Qr  the  other  constantly  in  the  task  of  read- 
ing aloud  to  him  the  classics  usually  tanglit  in  the 
schools. 

"  A  naturally  faithful  memory,  spurred  on  by  such 
strong  excitement,  performed  its  oft-repeated  mira 
cles,  and  in  a  space  of  time  incredibly  short,  he  be- 
came master  of  their  contents  even  to  the  minutest 
points  of  critical  reading.  In  illustration  of  this,  the 
author  remembers  on  one  occasion,  that  a  dispute 
havinor  arisen  between  Mr.  Nelson  and  the  classical 
professor  of  the  college,  as  to  the  construction  of  a 
passage  in  Vii-gll,  from  which  his  students  were  reci- 
ting, the  professor  appealed  to  the  circumstance  of 
a  comma  in  the  sentence,  as  conclusive  of  the  ques- 
tion. 'True,'  said  Mr.  Nelson,  coloring  with  strong 
emotion,  '  but  permit  me  to  observe,'  said  he,  turning 
his  sightless  eyeballs  towards  the  book  he  held  in  his 
hand,  '  that,  in  my  Heyne's  edition  it  is  a  colon,  and 
not  a  comma.' 

"  At  this  period  a  gentleman,  who  accidentally  be- 
came acquainted  with  his  history,  in  a  feelmg  some- 
what between  pity  and  confidence,  placed  his  two  sons 
under  his  charge,  with  a  view  to  enable  him  to  try 


THEIB   ACHIEVEMENTS.  233 

the  experiment  of  teaching.  A  few  months'  trial  was 
sufficient ;  he  then  fearlessly  appeared  before  the  pub- 
lic, and  at  once  challenged  a  comparison  with  the 
best  established  cKissical  schools  in  the  city.  The 
novelty  and  boldness  of  the  attempt  attracted  general 
attention  ;  the  lofty  confidence  he  displayed  in  him- 
self excited  respect ;  and  soon  his  untiring  assiduity, 
his  real  knowledge,  and  a  burning  zeal,  which,  know- 
ing no  bounds  in  his  own  devotion  to  his  scholars, 
awakened  somewhat  of  a  corresponding  spirit  in  their 
minds,  completed  the  conquest.  His  reputation 
spread  daily  ;  scholars  flocked  to  him  in  crowds ; 
competition  sunk  before  him;  and  in  the  course  of  a 
few  years  he  found  himself  in  the  enjoyment  of  an 
income  superior  to  that  of  any  college  patronage  in 
the  United  States,  with  to  him  the  infinitely  higher 
gratification  of  having  risen  above  the  pity  of  the 
world,  and  fought  his  own  blind  way  to  Jionorable  in- 
dependence. Nor  was  this  all ;  he  had  succeeded  m 
placing  classical  education  on  higher  ground  than  an} 
of  his  predecessors  or  cotemporaries  had  done,  and  he 
felt  proud  to  think  that  he  was,  in  some  measure,  a 
benefactor  to  that  college  which,  a  few  years  before, 
he  had  entered  in  poverty  and  quitted  in  blindness." 
"When  we  reflect  upon  a  list  of  characters  like  the 
foregoing,  wliD  have  elicited  light  from  darkness,  and 
become  ornaments  to  their  nation  and  age,  we  cannot 
but  feel  more  reconciled  to  our  lot,  and  inspired  with 
the  glorious  thought  that,  notwithstanding  our  priva- 
tion, life  is  yet  what  we  make  it.     Whatever  may  be 


234:  BEAUTIES    OF   THE    BLIND. 

the  obstacles  opposed  to  our  progress,  so  long  as  per- 
severance and  enterprise  can  triumph  over  them, 
none  but  the  timid  and  pusillanimous  should  fear  or 
sink  in  despair.  Science  and  religion,  the  unalloyed 
and  inexhaustible  fountains  of  human  happiness,  lie 
still  within  our  reach,  inviting  as  the  fruits  of 
Paradise. 


SECTION  n. 

DIVINES,  LA^VTEKS  AND  PHYSICIANS. 

As  ministers  of  the  gospel,  the  blind  have  in  every 
age  and  branch  of  the  christian  church  received  but 
little  encouragement,  if  they  have  not  always  been 
indiscriminately  rejected.  Davidson,  notwithstand- 
ing his  Une  talents  and  thorough  preparation,  could 
not  obtain  clerical  credentials  ;  and  Blacklock  was 
driven  from  his  charge  by  popular  prejudice,  after  a 
regular  installment.  Yet,  with  all  these  discourage- 
ments, love  to  God,  and  an  ardent  desire  to  see  hu- 
manity rescued  from  the  thralldom  of  sin  and  misery, 
have  constrained  many  of  our  order  to  become  able 
and  efficient  laborers  in  Christ's  moral  vineyard. 
We  would  not,  however,  urge  claims  to  a  sphere  to 
which  the  Lord  himself  will  call  those  "of  whom 
he  hath  need  ; "  but  should  the  all-wise  Creator 
and  controller  of  the  univei"se  call  one  deprived  of 
natural  vision,  that  he  might  "see  and  tell  of  things 
invisible  to  mortal  sight,"  we  cannot  comprehend  by 


THEIR    ACHTEVKMKNTS.        '  2Ji5 

w^hat  autlioritv  be  is  prevented  from  exercising  the 
ministerial  functions. 

VV^e  are  aware,  tliat  under  the  law  of  Moses,  blind- 
ness was  a  disqualification  for  the  priestly  office  ;  but 
as  the  wholeness  of  that  order,  as  well  as  the  unbiem- 
ishedness  of  the  victims  sacrificed,  were  only  typical 
of  the  coming  Messiah's  moral  and  physical  perfec- 
tion, that  clause  of  the  law  can  certainly  (we  think) 
have  no  bearing  on  the  ministry  under  the  new  dis- 
pensation, from  which  types  and  shadows  have  dis- 
appeared. Jehovah  spoke  to  his  people  by  the  mouth 
of  Teresias  and  Phineas,  blind  prophets  of  old,  and 
we  can  see  no  reason  why  the  same  privation  should 
prevent  holy  men,  at  the  present  day,  from  preach- 
ing the  truths  of  the  everlasting  gospel. 

Rev,  John  Traughton,  of  the  seventeenth  century-, 
one  of  the  most  able  and  devoted  advocates  of  tiie 
Puritan  faith,  was  blind  from  the  fourth  year  of  his 
ajire.  This  eminent  divine  received  his  rudimentarv 
Instruction  at  the  free  school  at  Coventry,  his  native 
place,  and  in  1655  entered  a  student  of  St.  John's  Col- 
lege, Oxford,  of  which  he  became  a  fellow",  and  there 
took  the  degree  of  Bachelor  of  Arts.  But  on  the  res- 
toration of  Charles  II.  he  was  expelled  from  fellow- 
ship on  account  of  his  Puritan  faith.  Soon  after  this, 
he  removed  to  Bicester,  where  he  read  academical 
lectures  to  young  men,  and  occasionally  preached  in 
private,  whereby  he  obtained  a  comfortable  sub- 
sistence. 

Upon  the  issuing  of  his  majesty's  declaration  for 


236  BKADTIE8    OF    THE    BLIND. 

the  toleration  of  religion,  dated  March  15th,  1671, 
Rev.  Mr.  Traughton  was  one  of  the  four  Bachelors  of 
Divinity  sent  by  his  sect,  to  establish  preaching  in 
the  city  of  Oxford.  So  great  was  liis  learning,  ])iety, 
and  moderation,  that  he  not  only  drew  large  num- 
bers of  college  students  as  auditors  to  his  chaj>el,  who 
were  fascinated  by  his  eloquence,  but  maintained  an 
amicable  correspondence  with  many  of  the  best  con- 
formable clergy  until  his  death,  which  occurred  in 
1681,  in  the  forty-fourth  year  of  his  age.  His  funeral 
discourse  was  preached  by  Rev.  Mr.  James,  master 
of  the  free  school  at  Woodstock,  who  was  also  blind. 
Traughton  wrote  several  books ;  nothing,  however, 
but  their  titles  are  now  extant :  "  The  Protestant 
Doctrine  of  Justification  by  Faith  only,  vindicated;" 
"Popery  the  Grand  Apostacy;"  "An  Apology  foi 
the  Nonconformists ; "  and  "  A  Letter  to  a  Friend, 
touching  God's  Providence." 

William  Jamieson,  D.  D.,  and  professor  of  his- 
tory at  the  Glasgow  University,  also  spent  the  greater 
part  of  his  life  in  preaching  the  gospel,  with  so  much 
success  that  historians  have  ranked  him  among  the 
first  of  the  Scotch  clergy. 

He  was  educated  at  the  University  of  Glasgow, 
and,  after  taking  his  degree,  was  there  for  some  time 
employed  in  reading  lectures  upon  civil  and  ecclesi- 
astical history.  He  was  also  earnestly  and  ably  en- 
gaged in  the  Episcopal  controversy,  which,  during  the 
latter  ])art  of  the  seventeenth  century,  formed  a  dis- 
tinguished feature  in  the  church  history  of  Scotland. 


'  THEIR   AcllKVliMENTS.  287 

[lis  numerous  works  on  this  subject  have  beep  highly 
valued,  and  are  said  to  bear  marks  of  astonishini; 
erudition.  From  the  numerous  complimentary  no- 
tices which  his  cotemporary  writers  have  given  him, 
we  select  the  following  from  Crawford's  history  of 
that  country : 

"  Near  the  house  of  Berochan,  and  within  the  ba- 
rony, was  born  the  learned  Mr.  William  Jamieson, 
preacher  of  the  gospel,  and  also  professor  of  history 
in  the  University  of  Glasgow,  who  was  a  miracle  of 
learning,  considering  he  was  deprived  of  the  sense  of 
sight  from  his  birth,  and  his  works  ali'ord  sufficient 
proof  of  his  being  a  very  able  scholar." 

Tlie  chastening  hand  of  affliction,  in  every  form, 
always  tends  to  curb  our  selfish  natures,  subdue  the 
heart,  and  render  us  more  alive  to  the  meek  and  gen- 
tle spirit  of  the  gospel.  We  might  give  numerous 
examples  of  blind  preachers'  melting  pathos,  but  only 
insert  the  following  on  account  of  its  somewhat  ex- 
traordinary character  :  "  Dr.  Guyse,  who  was  sud- 
denly deprived  of  sight,  while  in  prayer  before  the 
sermon,  preserved  sufficient  self-command  to  lay 
aside  his  notes,  and  deliver  his  discourse  extempore. 
But  after  service,  while  being  led  through  the  chapel, 
he  was  heard  to  lament  the  sudden  loss  of  sight, 
wlien  a  good  old  lady  accosted  hi«i  with  the  follow- 
ing congratulations :  "  God  be  praised  tliat  your 
sight  is  gone ;  I  think  1  never  heard  you  preach  so 
powerful  a  sermon  in  my  life.  Now  v.e  shall  have 
no  more  notes.     I  wish,  for  my  own  purt,  tiiat  the 


238  BEAUTIES    OF   THE    BLIND.  » 

Lord  had  taken  away  jour  eye-sight  twenty  years 
ago,for  yuiir  ministry  would  have  been  more  useful 
by  twenty  degrees." 

From  an  English  writer  we  copy  the  following  in- 
teresting account  of  a  blind  clergyman,  which  serves 
forcibly  to  illustrate  the  degree  of  independence  that 
one,  under  this  misfortune,  may  acquire  by  undaunted 
courage  and  perseverance : 

"  In  my  rambles  last  summer,"  says  the  writer  from 
whom  this  account  is  taken,  "  on  the  borders  of 
Wales,  I  found  myself  one  morning  alone  on  the 
banks  of  the  beautiful  river  Wye,  without  a  servant 
or  a  guide.  I  had  to  ford  the  river  at  a  place  where, 
according  to  the  instructions  given  me  at  the  nearest 
hamlet,  if  I  diverged  ever  so  little  from  the  maiks 
which  the  rippling  of  the  current  made  as  it  passed 
over  a  ledge  of  rocks,  I  should  sink  twice  the  depth 
of  myself  and  horse.  While  I  stood  hesitating  on  the 
margin,  viewing  attentively  the  course  of  the  ford,  a 
person  passed  me  on  the  canter,  and  the  next  instant 
I  saw  him  plunge  into  the  river  ;  presuming  on  his 
acquaintance  with  the  passage,  I  immediately  and 
closely  followed  his  steps.  As  soon  as  we  had  gained 
the  opposite  bank,  I  accosted  him  with  thanks  for  the 
benefit  of  his  guidance  ;'  but  what  was  my  astonish- 
ment, when,  bursting  into  a  hearty  laugh,  he  ob- 
served, that  my  confidence  would  have  been  less  had 
I  known  that  I  had  been  following  a  blind  guide! 
The  manner  of  the  man,  as  well  as  the  fact,  attracted 
iny  curiosity.     To  my  expressions  of  surprise  at  hia 


THEIR   ACHIEVEMENTS.  239 

venturing  to  cross  the  river  alone,  he  answered,  that 
he  and  the  horse  he  rode  had  done  the  same  thing 
every  Sunday  inorning  for  the  last  five  years;  but 
that,  in  reality,  this  was  not  the  most  perilous  part 
of  his  weekly  peregrination  as  I  should  be  convinced, 
♦f  my  way  led  over  the  mountain  belbre  us.  My 
journey  had  no  object  but  pleasure ;  I  tlierefore  re- 
solved to  attach  myself  to  ray  extraordinary  compan- 
ion, and  soon  learned,  in  our  chat,  as  we  wound  up 
the  steep  mountain's  side,  that  he  was  a  clergyman  ; 
and  of  that  class  which  is  the  disgrace  of  our  ecclesi- 
astical establishment ;  I  mean  the  county  curates,  who 
exist  upon  the  liberal  stipend  of  thirty,  twenty,  and 
sometimes  fifteen  pounds  a  year  !  This  gentleman, 
aged  sixty,  had,  about  thirty  years  befoi'e,  been  en- 
gaged in  the  curacy  to  which  he  was  now  traveling, 
and  though  it  was  at  the  distance  of  eight  long  Welch 
miles  from  the  place  of  his  residence,  such  was  the 
respe.ct  of  his  flock  towards  him,  that,  at  the  com- 
mencement of  his  calamity,  rather  than  part  with 
him,  they  sent  regularly,  every  Sunday  morning,  a 
deputation  to  guide  their  old  pastor  on  his  way. 
The  road,  besides  crossing  the  river  we  had  just 
passed,  led  over  a  craggy  mountain,  on  whose  top 
innumerable  and  uncertain  bogs  were  constantly 
forming,  but  which,  nevertheless,  by  the  instinct  of 
hia  Welch  pony,  this  blind  man  has  actually  crossed 
alone  for  the  last  five  years,  having  so  long  dismissed 
Uie  assistance  of  guides. 
•'  Whilp  our  talk  beguiled  the  way,  we  insensibly 


S40  BEAUTIES   OF   THE   BLINB. 

arrived  within  sight  of  his  village  church,  which  was 
seated  in  a  deep  and  narrow  vale.  As  I  looked  down 
upon  it,  the  bright  verdure  of  the  meadows,  which 
were  here  and  there  chequered  with  patches  of  jel 
low  corn  ;  the  moving  herd  of  cattle  ;  the  rich  foliage 
of  the  groves  of  oak,  hanging  irregularly  over  its 
aides ;  the  white  houses  of  the  inhabitants,  which 
sprinkled  every  corner  of  this  peaceful  retreat ;  and, 
above  all,  the  inhabitants  themselves,  assembled  in 
their  best  attire,  round  their  place  of  worship  :  all  this 
gay  scene,  rushing  at  once  on  the  view,  struck  my 
senses  and  imagination  more  forcibly  than  1  can  ex- 
press. 

"As  we  entered  the  church-yard,  the  respectful 
'■  how  do  you  do  ? '  of  the  young,  the  hearty  shakes 
of  the  old,  and  the  familiar  gambols  of  the  children, 
sliowed  how  their  old  pastor  reigned  in  the  hearts  of 
all.  After  some  refreshment  at  the  nearest  house, 
we  went  to  the  church,  where  my  veteran  priest  read 
the  prayers,  psalms,  and  chapters  of  the  day,  and  then 
preached  a  sermon,  in  a  manner  that  could  have 
made  no  one  advert  to  his  loss  of  sight.  At  dinner, 
which  it  seems  that  four  of  the  most  substantial  far 
mers  of  the  vale  provide  in  turn,  he  related  the  pro- 
gress of  his  increased  powers  of  memory.  For  the 
firet  year,  he  attempted  only  the  prayers  and  sermons, 
the  best  reader  of  the  parish  making  it  a  pride  to 
officiate  for  him  in  the  psalms  and  chapters ;  he  next 
undertook  the  labor  of  learning  these  by  heart,  and, 
at  present,  by  continual  ropetition,  there  is  not  a  psalm 


THBIK   ACHIEVEMENTS.  241 

r  chapter,  of  the  more  than  two  hundred  appointed 
I  or  the  Sunday  service,  that  he  is  not  perfect  in. 
He  told  me,  also,  that,  having  in  his  little  school  two 
sons  of  his  own,  intended  for  the  university,  he  has, 
by  hearing  them  continually,  committed  the  greatest 
part  of  Homer  and  Virgil  to  memory." 

The  Rev.  Doctors  Blacklock  and  Lucas  would  also 
properly  come  under  this  head  ;  but  they  have  been 
disposed  of  more  at  length  in  another  part  of  this 
volume. 

Rev.  Edwakd  Stokes,  who  zealously  preached  the 
gospel  for  a  term  of  fifty  yeare,  was  born  in  1705, 
and  exchanged  this  for  a  brighter  world,  at  Blaby,  in 
Leicestershire,  1796,  at  the  good  old  age  of  ninety- 
three.  When  in  his  ninth  year,  while  at  school,  an 
accidental  discharge  of  a  pistol  totally  destroyed  his 
sight.  He,  however,  continued  his  studies  with 
pleasing  success,  until  he  took  his  degree  of  Master 
of  Arts  at  the  university,  soon  after  which  he  was 
admitted  into  holy  orders,  and  a])pointed  a  parish 
minister  in  Leicestershire.  With  the  assistance  of  a 
person  to  read  the  lessons,  he  performed  all  the  ser- 
vice of  the  church ;  and  few  pastors  were  ever  more 
beloved  by  their  people  than  this  benevolent  and  de- 
voted man. 

In  the  legal  profession,  we  have  but  few  names  of 
our  order  to  record.  Whether  the  divine  denuncia- 
tion, "  Woe  unto  you,  lawyers,"  or  conscientious 
scruples  have  deterred  them  from  this  pursuit,  we  are 
not  prepared  to  decide.     It  is  quite  certain,  however. 


'i{42  BEAUTIES   OF   THE   BLIND. 

that  it  is  not  tlie  obstacles  which  a  want  of  sight  irj 
poses ;    for,  to  encounter  and  overcome  difficulties; 
seems  to  have  uniformly  afforded  the  blind  a  fruitful 
source  of  pleasure. 

Dr.  i^icHOLAS  Bacon,  a  celebrated  advocate  at  the 
council  of  Brabant,  who  was  deprived  of  sight  in 
childhood,  encouraged  by  the  example  of  one  Nica- 
sius  de  Yourde,  born  blind,  who  lived  near  the  close 
of  the  fifteenth  century,  and  who,  after  distinguish- 
ing himself  in  his  studies  at  the  University  of  Lou- 
vain,  had  taken  b'.s  degree  of  D.  D.  in  that  of  Cologne, 
himself  resolved  to  make  the  same  attempt.  "  But 
his  friends,"  says  Wilson,  "  treated  his  intention  with 
ridicule,  and  even  the  professors  themselves  were  not 
far  from  the  same  sentiment ;  for  they  admitted  him 
into  their  schools,  rather  under  the  impression  that 
be  might  amuse  them,  tlian  that  they  should  be  able 
to  communicate  much  information  to  him.  He  had 
the  good  fortune,  however,  contrary  to  their  expecta- 
tions, to  obtain  the  first  place  among  his  fellow-stu- 
dents. They  then  said,  that  such  rapid  advances 
might  be  made  in  the  preliminary  branches  of  edu- 
cation, but  that  they  would  soon  be  effectually  checked 
in  studies  of  a  more  profound  nature.  This  opinion, 
it  seems,  was  reiterated  through  the  whole  range  of 
bis  pursuits,  and  when,  in  the  course  of  academical 
learning,  it  became  necessary  to  study  the  art  of  po- 
etry, it  was  declared  by  the  general  voice,  that  all 
was  over,  and  that  at  length  ho  had  reached  his  iie 
phm  idtra  ;   "but  here,  likewise,  he  disproved  their 


THEIR   ACHIETEMKNTS.  243 

prejinlioes,  and  tanglit  them  the  immense  difference 
between  blindness  of  the  intellect,  and  blindness  ot 
the  bodily  organs.  After  continuing  his  studies  m 
classics  and  philosophy  for  two  years  longer,  he  ap 
plied  himself  to  law,  and  took  his  degree  in  that  sci- 
ence at  Brussels."  During  the  long  and  extensive 
practice  of  his  profession,  he  had  the  good  fortune, 
almost  invariably,  to  terminate  the  suits  in  which  he 
engaged,  to  the  entire  satisfaction  of  his  clients. 

Sir  John  Fielding,  who  became  blind  in  youth, 
acted  in  the  capacity  of  justice,  in  Westminster,  with 
great  energy  and  sagacity  for  many  years.  So  prompt 
and  assiduous  was  he  in  the  execution  of  the  law,  that 
the  name  of  blind  Fielding,  it  is  said,  was  a  ter- 
ror to  evil  doers.  He  was  also  an  active  and  be- 
nevolent promoter  of  the  Marine  Society ;  was 
knighted  in  1761,  and  died  at  Brompton,  in  1780. 
Sir  John  published  various  tracts  on  the  penal  code, 
ind  was  the  author  of  a  miscellaneous  publication, 
entitled,  "Universal  Mentor.'' 

For  one  destitute  of  sight  to  enter  upon  the  prac- 
tice of  medicine,  may  to  some,  at  first,  appear  pre- 
posterous; but  when  the  comparative  facilities  of  the 
olind  and  seeing  in  this  field  of  usefulness  are  rightly 
viewed,  this  impression  may  in  some  degree  be  re- 
moved. By  the  eye,  it  is  true,  the  physician  learns 
the  attitude  of  his  patient,  the  expression  of  the  coun- 
tenance, the  state  of  the  tongue,  and  the  color  of  the 
skin ;  and  these  signs  often  indicate  the  nature  of  tlie 
disorder.     How,  then,  can  a  blind  man  be  a   good 


244  BEAtJTIES  OF  THE   BLIND 

physician?  We  answer  :  he  may  acquire  a  correct 
knowledge  of  all  these  signs,  with  the  exception  of 
the  color  of  the  skin,  by  the  sense  of  touch  ;  and  this 
sense  being  in  him  more  acute  and  refined,  he  is  per- 
haps able  to  judge  more  correctly  of  the  state  and 
condition  of  the  skin,  which  is  considered  a  matter 
of  great  importance  in  the  practice  of  this  profession. 
External  diseases,  particularly  cutaneous,  are  seldom 
attended  with  danger,  and  are  chiefly  distinguished 
by  the  eye  ;  internal  complaints,  on  the  other  hand, 
which  are  very  numerous  and  more  dangerous,  are 
frequently  discovered  by  the  sense  of  feeling ;  and, 
as  a  blind  physician  has  the  advantage  of  a  more 
acute  sense  of  touch,  he  is  able  to  form  a  very  correct 
opinion  of  the  seat  and  nature  of  these  complaints. 
Hugh  Ja]vii-:s,  M.  D.,  followed  his  profession  foi 
many  years  with  eminent  success,  after  he  was  totally 
deprived  of  sight.  This  distinguished  physician  was 
born  at  St.  Bee's,  in  Cumberland,  1771.  After  hav- 
ing passed  through  a  thorough  course  of  medical 
study,  he  graduated  at  Edinburgh,  in  1803,  and  set- 
tled at  Carlisle  as  a  practicing  physician.  Several 
years  previous  to  this,  his  sight  had  been  much  im- 
paired by  severe  inflammation  in  the  head,  and  in 
the  winter  of  1806,  he  became  totally  blind.  But, 
instead  of  allowing  this  misfortune  to  frustrate  all  his 
plans  of  future  usefulness,  he  continued  the  practice 
of  medicine  with  so  much  assiduity  and  skill,  that, 
after  his  death,  the  people*  of  Carlisle  erected  to  his 
memory  a  monument,  with  the  following  inscription* 


THEIR    ACHIEVEMKNT8.  245 

"  To  the  memory  of  Hugh  James,  M.  D.,  who 
practiced  physic  with  eminent  skill  for  many  years, 
in  this  city.  Providence  largely  recompensed  the 
loss  of  sight  in  early  life,  with  talents  which  raised 
him  to  distinguished  reputation  in  his  profession,  and 
more  ahundantly  blessed  him  with  a  disposition  ever 
prompt  to  succor  poverty  and  pain.  The  study  of  his 
art,  which  showed  him  the  weakness  and  uncertainty 
of  life,  taught  him  to  meditate  deeply  on  the  works 
of  God,  and  animated  his  faith  in  a  merciful  Re- 
deemer, He  died  the  20th  of  September,  1817,  in 
the  forty -fifth  year  of  his  age,  and  was  interred  in 
the  parish  church  of  Arthuret." 

In  the  summary  notices  comprised  in  this  series, 
of  those  eminent  blind,  who  must  ever  be  cheering 
as  well  as  guiding  stars  to  their  order,  we  have  uni- 
formly omitted  a  description  of  the  various  methods 
and  apparatuses  employed  by  them  in  the  study  of 
the  different  sciences  ;  as  they  could  be  of  no  service 
at  present,  save  to  gratify  the  curious.  In  the  insti- 
tutions for  the  education  of  this  class,  established  in 
almost  every  state  of  our  Union,  as  well  as  those  of 
Europe,  vastly  improved  and  simplified  apparatuses 
are  introduced,  answering  as  perfect  substitutes  in 
every  department  of  science,  for  those  commonly 
nsed  in  schools  for  the  seeing.  But,  notwithstanding 
the  educational  facilities  which  all  the  blind  at  pres- 
ent possess,  none  haveattained  to  that  celebrity  which 
our  riredecessors  enjoyed,  when  no  institutions  of  this 
kind  were  known.     This,  we  think,  cannot  be  so  much 


246  BEAUTIES    OF   THE   BLIND. 

attributable  4;o  comparative  talent,  as  to  the  limited 
and  inadequate  course  of  study,  within  the  pale  of 
these  establishments.  Where  these  institutions  exist, 
the  public  expects  that  they  shall  do  the  work  of  ed- 
ucating the  blind,  and  consequently  the  colleges  and 
universities,  in  which  our  eminent  predecessors  were 
admitted,  and  where  they  received  the  high  intellec- 
tual training  that  enabled  them  to  rise  above  their 
misfortune,  are,  in  a  great  measure,  closed  against  us. 
Until  the  blind  student's  course  of  study  is  raised  to 
a  level  with  those  pursued  at  our  best  colleges,  he  is 
unable  to  move  successfully  in  the  sphere  wlience  he 
draws  his  highest  happiness,  and  in  which  he  can  be 
most  useful  to  himself,  and  society.  In  the  world  of 
thought  and  idea  is  his  most  congenial  realm.  Here 
in  the  broad  field  of  scientific  research,  he  needs  no 
guide  ;  but  walks  with  unfaltering  tread,  and  with 
the  torch  of  reason  explores  the  dai'kest  vaults  of  na- 
ture's archives ;  then  climbs  on  the  chain  of  univer- 
sal laws,  to  distant  worlds,  and  weighs  in  the  balance 
of  calculation  vast  systenis  plunged  in  the  depth  of 
space. 

We  would  not  be  understood,  however,  to  depre- 
ciate the  philanthropic  hand  that  has  placed  within 
our  reach,  as  a  class,  the  common  branches  of  educa- 
tion ;  but  would  only  beg  leave  to  remark,  that  all 
has  not  been  done  for  the  blind  that  can  be  accom- 
plished, or  that  we  have  reason  to  expect  at  the  hands 
of  our  government,  and  christian  philanthropists. 
We  implore  those,  whose  generous  hearts  have  been 


THEIR   ACHIEVEMENTS.  247 

enlisted  in  our  behalf,  to  put  within  our  reach  a  fin- 
ished college  education  ;  such  as  many  who  have  the' 
use  of  their  eyes,  and  all  other  natural  faculties,  en- 
joy at  the  expense  of  government.  Here  is  yet  a 
field  open  that  will  richly  repay,  in  human  happiness, 
the  labors  of  public  or  private  munificence  ;  for  it 
imparts  sight  to  the  blind.  Showers  of  emotional 
sympathy  we  have  on  every  side;  but  stern  experi- 
ence has  taught  us,  that  these  will  neither  fill  au 
empty  stomach,  nor  satisfy  the  cravings  of  an  immor 
tal  mind ;  but,  on  the  contrary,  unless  accompanied 
by  well-directed  christian  benevolence,  they  serve 
only  to  awaken  in  our  bosoms  smouldering  emotions 
of  sorrow,  which  we  would  fain  forever  suppress. 
Nothing  can  be  more  cruel  and  inconsistent,  than  for 
persons  who  would  commiserate  our  misfortune,  to 
point  out  its  darkest  phase,  and  draw  before  our  ima- 
gination a  panorama  of  all  the  fascinating  beauties 
hid  from  our  view,  paiuted  in  the  most  extravagant 
colors.  Such  compassion  can  but  aggravate  our 
wounds,  and  move  us  to  raurniur  against  an  irrevoca- 
ble providence.  Even  under  this  affliction,  life  is  not 
w^ithout  its  charms.  So  multifarious  and  boundless 
are  the  resources  of  human  happiness,  that  by  the 
loss  of  natural  sight,  new  and  more  glorious  scenes 
of  contemplation  break  upon  04ir  spiritual  vision. 
With  a  lively  hope  soon  to  be  disencumbered  from 
(he  imperfections  of  sense,  and  forever  roam  through 
the  regions  of  fadeless  beauty,  we  endure  our  lot  with 
patience,  and  can  say,  in  the  language  of  the  poet ; 


248  BEAUTIES    OF    IHE    BI.INI). 

"  He  doeth  all  things  well."  The  great  Milton,  whb 
'  nnder  a  depression  of  spirits,  lamented  his  loss  of 
sight  in  the  most  pathetic  strains,  said,  in  momenta 
of  cooler  reflection:  "  It  is  not,  however,  miserable 
to  be  blind  :  he  only  is  miserable  whb  cannot  acqui- 
esce in  his  blindness  with  fortitude.  And  why  should 
I  repine  at  a  calamity  which  every  man's  mind  ought 
to  be  so  prepared  and  disciplined  as  to  be  able,  on  the 
contingency  of  its  happening,  to  undergo  with  pa- 
tience a  calamity  to  whi  h  man,  by  the  condition  of 
his  nature,  is  liable,  and  which  I  know  to  have  been 
the  lot  of  some  of  the  greatest  and  the  best  of  my 
species  ? " 


ACHIEVEMENTS  OF  THE  BLIND  IN  THE  INDUS- 
TRIAL PURSUITS. 

SERIES  II.— SECTION  I. 

MECHANICS. 

There  is,  perhaps,  no  calling  in  which  it  may  be- 
come necessary  for  us  to  act,  where  sight  is  so  neces- 
sary, as  in  the  manual  labor  pursnits.  In  rude  stages 
of  society,  when  mechanical  operations  were  all  per- 
formed by  hand,  it  may  have  been  more  possible  for 
a  blind  person,  in  some  branches,  to  compete  with  the 
seeing.  But  in  an  age  like  the  present,  when  steam 
and  other  natural  agents,  have  usurped  the  place  of 
muscular  power,  and  the  manufacture  of  all  articles 
of  profit  is  monopolized  by  large  capitalists,  this  possi- 
bility seems  almost  entirely  to  have  vanished.  The 
facility  with  which  a  seeing  person  will  manufacture 
articles  by  the  aid  of  machinery,  from  M'hich  those 
without  sight  have  been  entirely  excluded,  appears  to 
have  left  this  class  of  laborers  utterly  without  a  hope 
of  gaining  even  a  livelihood.  But  it  seems  to  us  that 
with  a  little  kindly  aid,  this  inequality  might,  in  a 
great  measure,  be  remedied.  That  the  blind  have 
shfiicient  ingenuity,  and  can  also  acquire  the  requi- 
site knowledge  of  any  mechanical  pursuit,  necessary 


250  BEAUTIES  OF  THE  BLIND. 

to  success,  will  not  be  questioned  bj  any  one,  in  the 
least  acquainted  with  their  history. 

But,  in  any  branch  requiring  the  use  of  numerous 
tools,  change  of  position,  and  bringing  together  man^ 
parts  into  one  whole,  they  must  uecessarily  lose  more 
time,  in  feeling  over  their  work,  selecting,  using  and 
replacing  their  implements,  than  one  who  has  his  eyes. 
Here,  then,  arises  their  only  inability  to  compete  with 
other  laborers.  Facility  is  what  they  have  lost,  and 
not  skill.  It  seems  to  us  that,  in  those  manufacturing- 
establishments  where  labor  is  so  divided  among  the 
operatives,  that  each  person  has  but  one  distinct  part 
of  the  whole  to  perform,  and  where  no  change  of  po- 
sition is  requisite,  the  blind  might  perform  some  por- 
tions of  the  process  with  but  little  or  no  inconve- 
nience. Should  manufacturing  establishments  of  this 
kind  be  erected,  in  connection  with  our  Institutions, 
where  machinery  would  facilitate  labor,  we  think, 
with  the  aid  of  a  few  seeing  persons  to  perform  the 
most  difficult  parts,  a  more  profitable  and  honorable 
operation  might  be  conducted,  than  in  the  few  simple 
trades  at  present  selected  for,  and  taught  to,  the  blind. 
Complex  mechanism  seems  never  to  have  frightened 
them,  but  on  the  other  hand,  when  left  to  their  own 
inclination  in  this  respect,  they  iiave  almost  uniformly 
selected  those  pursuits  in  which  great  ingenuity  and 
delicacy  of  perception  were  most  indispensable. 

William  HuNTLY,a  native  of  Barnstaple,  in  Devon, 
who  was  born  blind,  spent  the  principal  portion  of 
his  life  in  watch  and  clock  making.     His  father  seems 


THEIR   ACHIEVEMENTS.  251 

to  have  possespcd  great  skill  in  this  business,  and 
brought  up  his  son  to  the  same  craft.  He  was  con- 
sidered by  the  inhabitants  of  his  native  place,  a  very 
superior  hand  in  his  profession,  especially  in  repair- 
ing musical  clocks  and  watches.  It  is  said  that  he 
seldom  met  with  any  difficulty,  even  in  the  most 
complicated  cases  ;  and  it  often  occurred  that  when 
others  failed  in  repairing  a  clock  or  watch,  Kuntly 
found  no  trouble  in  discovering  the  nature  of  the 
malady,  and  presently  administered  the  proper  nos- 
trum. Had  not  our  own  experience  and  observa- 
tion taught  us  to  what  an  astonisliin*^  degree  the  sense 
of  touch  may  be  cultivated,  the  idea  of  making  it 
supply  the  place  of  the  eye,  and  a  powerful  magni- 
fying glass,  (which  is  generally  used  by  jewelers,) 
might,  to  us,  as  well  as  to  others,  seem  preposterous. 
Besides,  these  facts  will  appear  still  more  reconcila- 
ble, when  it  is  remembered  that  Huntly  lived  in  the 
days  of  huge  wooden  clocks,  and  watches  about  the 
size  of  a  Moravian  biscuit. 

Neither  is  he  the  only  blind  pers<m  who  turned 
his  attention  to  this  art.  William  Kennedy,  who 
became  sightless  in  childhood,  had  the  reputation  of 
being  one  of  the  best  clock  builders,  both  comtnon 
and  musical,  of  his  time.  This  mechanical  genius 
was  a  native  of  Tanderagee,  Armagh,  and  lived  in 
the  latter  part  of  the  seventeenth  century,  "When  a 
boy,  he  was  master  builder  and  projector  for  all  the 
children  in  his  native  town,  nor  did  maturer  years 
relax  his  desire  to  engage  in  useful  employments. 


255i  BEAUTIES    OF   l-HE   BLIND. 

When  at  the  age  of  thirteen,  having  been  sent  to  Ar- 
magh for  the  purpose  of  receiving  lessons  in  music, 
and  while  there,  residing  with  a  cabinet  maker,  his 
mechanical  propensities  were  newly  awakened,  and 
he  soon  made  himself  acquainted  with  the  tools  of 
his  host,  and  the  manner  of  working  them.  Although 
this  more  congenial  employment  occupied  much  of 
his  time,  he  also  made  a  very  satisfactory  progress  in 
music ;  but,  on  his  return  home,  his  first  care  waa 
to  procure  tools,  with  which  he  fabricated  many  ar- 
ticles of  household  furniture.  lie  also  constructed 
Irish  bagpipes  of  a  very  improved  patent,  together 
with  other  wind  and  stringed  instruments ;  and  so 
perfect  was  his  knowledge  in  this  art,  that  he  was, 
by  a  sort  of  common  consent,  elected  repairer  and 
builder-general,  for  the  entire  musical  order,  over  a 
large  section  of  country.  In  the  alternate  occupa- 
tions of  clock  and  cabinet  making,  building  looms, 
with  their  various  tacklings,  and  his  other  mechan- 
ical accomplishments,  he  maintained  and  raised  a 
large  and  respectable  family. 

Another  genius  of  the  same  kind,  not  altogether 
without  fame,  was  Thomas  Wii^on,  a  native  of  Dum- 
fries, who  lost  his  sight  in  very  early  infancy.  His 
intuitive  fondness  for  mechanical  pursuits,  early  en- 
ticed him  to  gain  a  knowledge  of  the  wood-turning 
trade,  in  which  occupation  he  spent  most  of  his  life, 
feo  well  did  he  succeed  in  this  business,  that  his  roll- 
ing-pins and  potatoe-raashers  gained  great  reputation 
among  the  good  wives  of  both  town  and  country  ;  and 


THEIR   ACHIEVEMENTS.  253 

in  making  tinsmiths'  mallets,  lint-breaks,  and  huck- 
sters' stands,  honest  Tom  was  acknowledged  on  every 
side  to  be  without  a  rival.  He  also  made  a  lathe 
suited  to  his  purpose,  and  the  numerous  tools  which 
this  business  requires,  he  had  so  arranged  that  ho 
could  take  from  his  slielf  any  one  he  might  need, 
without  the  least  dithculty. 

It  is  related  of  Csesar,  the  amoitious  Roman,  that, 
on  passing  through  a  small  country  village  one  day, 
in  company  with  some  of  his  courtiers,  he  turned 
to  one  of  them,  and  said,  "  Believe  me,  I  had  rather 
be  the  first  man  in  this  small  town,  than  the  second 
m  Rome."  If  Wilson  was  inspired  with  any  such 
desires  of  superiority,  he  had  the  gi>od  fortune  to 
have  them  early  gratified ;  for,  in  addition  to  the 
Honor  arising  from  his  mechanical  genius,  he  was 
elected  principal,  not  of  a  college  or  university,  for 
why  should  he  have  his  peace  of  mind  disturbed  by 
the  impertinent  trickery  of  mischievous  students  ? — 
but  principal  of  the  high  situation  of  bell-ringer  in 
the  mid-steeple  of  Dumfries.  And  to  prove  to  all 
future  generations  that  a  blind  man  can  be  true  to 
high  situations,  as  well  as  any  other  man,  he  died  at 
his  post,  in  the  mid-steeple,  at  the  age  of  seventy-five 
years,  and  the  sixty-third  year  of  his  bell-ringership. 
He  was  respected  and  beloved  during  the  whole  of 
his  life,  by  his  fellow-citizens,  and  all  who  knew  bim. 
It  appears  that  he  was  never  married,  but  lived  the 
enviable  life  of  a  bachelor,  doing  his  own  cookingj, 


254-  BEAUTIES   OF   THE    BLIND. 

making  his  own  bed,  raising  iiis  own  potatoes,  and 
living,  in  every  respect,  a  freeman. 

John  Kay,  of  Glasgow,  was  engaged  at  the  carpen- 
ter and  joiner  trade  for  a  number  of  yeai*s,  though 
he  lost  his  sight  through  the  accidental  discharge  of 
a  musket,  when  but  nine  years  of  age.  His  skill  in 
the  use  of  edge  tools  was  so  comj)lete  that  he  gave 
his  work  as  perfect  a  finish  as  the  most  skillful  of  his 
fellow-tradesmen.  He  also  worked  in  mahogany  and 
other  sorts  of  fine  wood,  and  made  various  kinds  of 
furniture.  Bat  the  most  valuable  labors  of  Kay's 
life,  and  those  that  endeared  him  most  to  his  friends 
and  the  church,  were  directed  towards  the  spiritual 
and  intellectual  elevation  of  the  youth.  As  a  teachei 
and  promoter  of  Sabbath  schools,  distributer  of  tracts, 
and  an  humble  and  assiduous  disciple  of  Christ,  his 
influence  will  long  be  felt  in  the  villages  and  country 
v;f  Scotland.  He  died  December  16th,  1809,  in  the 
thirty-second  year  of  his  age. 

In  this  connection  we  may  also  notice  Bagero,  the 
blind  carpenter  and  joiner  of  Western  New  York, 
This  enterprising  man,  who  was  sightless  from  in- 
fancy, has  gemmed  the  counties  of  Livingston  and 
Steuben  with  beautiful  cottages,  finished  in  the  most 
elegant  style. 

It  seems  that  there  are  but  few  mechanical  depart- 
ments in  which  sight  may  not  be  dispensed  with,  as 
the  following  example  may  serve  to  show :     Mao- 
GUTEE,  the  family  tailor  of  JVfr.  McDonald,  of  Cian 
ronald,  Invernesshire,  totally  lost   his  sight  fifteen 


THEIB   ACHIEVEMENTS.  255 

yeare  before  his  death.  Yet  he  continued  to  work 
for  the  family  as  before,  not  indeed  with  the  same  ex- 
pedition, but  with  equal  correctness.  It  is  well 
known  how  difficult  it  is  to  make  a  Tartan  dress,  be- 
cause every  stripe  and  color  (of  which  there  are 
many)  must  fit  each  other  with  mathematical  exact- 
ness ;  yet  from  this  material  he  made  an  entire  suit 
for  his  master's  brother,  with  as  much  precision  as 
he  could  have  done  before  he  lost  his  sight. 

David  Mapes,  who  lost  the  use  of  his  eyes,  after 
having  learned  the  trade  of  wagon  making,  continued 
in  that  pursuit  with  nearly  the  same  success  as  be- 
fore, and  is  at  present  earning  a  very  respectable 
livelihood  at  Angelica,  New  York. 

It  has  been  remarked,  that  those  who  lose  their 
sight  in  mature  years,  never  succeed  in  learning  a 
new  trade.  But  even  to  this  rule  we  must  ne'er  an 
exception.  Nathaniel  Pkice,  who  became  blind 
from  severe  cold,  while  on  a  voyage  to  America,  af 
ter  his  return  betook  himself  to  the  employment  of 
binding  books.  It  seems  that  he  had  no  previous 
knowledge  of  this  art,  as  his  former  occupation  was 
that  of  a  bookseller.  Yet  it  is  recorded  that  he 
bound  books  in  the  very  first  style.  Several  speci 
mens  of  his  skill  are  in  the  English  libraries  of  the 
curious,  among  which  is  an  elegantly  bound  quarto 
bible,  in  the  library  of  the  Duke  of  Marlborough,  at 
Sion-hill,  in  Oxfordshire.  Mr.  Price  also  gave  vent 
to  his  ingenuity  in  the  manufacture  of  his  clothes, 


Z66  BEAUTIES  Ol*'  THE  BLIND. 

wliich  he  made,  from  the  shoes  on  his  feet  to  the  hat 
on  his  head. 

We  shall  now  proceed  to  notice  a  few  characters, 
who,  it  seems,  rose  to  greater  proficiency  in  the  me- 
chanical department  than  any  adverted  to  in  the  fore- 
going. One  of  these  is  Joseph  Strong,  a  native  of 
Carlisle,  who  lost  his  sight  at  the  age  of  four  years. 
He  early  exhibited  an  inventive  and  mechanical 
genius,  in  the  construction  of  a  curious  fiddle,  bell- 
harp,  hautboy,  and  other  musical  instruments ;  and 
at  the  age  of  fifteen  his  great  ambition  was  to  build 
an  organ,  on  which  he  had  learned  to  play.  In  order 
to  gain  a  more  perfect  knowledge  of  its  several  parts 
and  their  combinations,  he  was  anxious  to  examine 
that  in  the  cathedral  of  Carlisle.  For  this  purpose 
he  concealed  himself  one  afternoon  in  that  place,  and 
when  the  congregation  had  retired  and  the  gates 
were  shut,  he  proceeded  to  the  organ  loft,  and  ex- 
amined every  part  of  the  instrument.  He  was  thus 
occupied  till  about  midnight,  when,  having  satisfied 
himself  respecting  its  general  construction,  he  began 
to  try  the  tone  of  the  different  stops  and  the  propor- 
tion they  bore  to  eacli  other.  This  experiment,  how- 
ever, could  not  be  conducted  as  silently  as  the  busi- 
ness which  had  before  engaged  his  attention  ;  the 
neighborhood  was  alarmed,  and  various  were  the 
conjectures  as  to  the  cause  of  the  nocturnal  music, 
as  spiritual  manifestations  were  then  unknown.  But 
at  length  some  persons  mustered  courage  sufficient 
to  go  and  see  what  was  the  matter,  and  Joseph  was 


Tiii;m  AciirKVEMEirrs.  "257 

found  playing  the  organ.  The  next  day  he  was  sent 
for  by  the  dean,  who,  after  reprimanding  him  for  the 
method  he  had  taken  to  gratify  liis  curiosity,  gave 
him  permission  to  play  whenever  he  pleased. 

He  now  set  about  building  his  first  organ,  which, 
after  its  completion,  he  sold,  and  it  is  now  in  posses- 
sion of  a  gentleman  in  Dublin,  who  preserves  it  as  a 
curiosity.  After  receiving  some  instruction  in  this  art 
at  London,  he  built  a  second  organ  for  his  own  use, 
and  afterward  constructed  a  third,  with  great  perfec- 
tion, which  he  sold  to  a  gentleman  in  the  Isle  of 
Man.  Mr.  Strong  was  married  at  the  age  of  twenty- 
five,  and  had  several  children.  His  house  was  ele- 
gantly furnished,  yet  it  contained  but  few  articles, 
either  of  utility  or  ornament,  that  were  not  of  iiis  own 
construction.  He  died  at  Carlisle,  in  March,  1798, 
in  his  sixty-sixth  year. 

The  acquirements  of  William  Talbot  were  so  nu- 
merous and  diversified,  that  it  is  difficult  to  determine* 
in  which  of  his  accomplishments  he  most  excelled. 
As  we  have  reserved  for  our  next  series  a  sufficient 
number  of  musicians  (among  whom  he  might  claim 
an  eminent  rank  )  to  prove  the  capacity  of  our  order 
for  that  profession  we  shall  mainly  speak  of  his  me- 
chanical attainments.  He  was  born  near  Roscrea, 
in  Tipperary,  in  the  year  1781,  and  lost  his  sight  from 
small-pox  at  four  years  of  age.  Afterwards  his  fam- 
ily removed  to  the  seaside,  at  a  place  near  Water- 
f«)rd,  where  young  Talbot  soon   began  to  evince  a 


258'  BEAUTIES   OF   TUE   BLIND. 

taste  for  mechanics,  in  the  construction  of  miniature 
wind-mills  and  water  wheels,  and  in  fitting  up  small 
ships  and  boats,  with  every  rope  and  appendage  as 
exactly  formed  as  in  those  of  a  larger  scale. 

At  the  age  of  seventeen  he  became  acquainted 
with  a  captain  in  the  navy,  and  was  finally  persuaded 
to  go  with  him  to  sea.  In  the  four  years  of  his  sea- 
faring life,  during  which  time  he  visited  many  parts 
of  the  world,  he  became  so  thoroughly  acquainted 
with  the  ship  that  he  could  readily  go  aloft  among 
any  part  of  its  tacklings,  and  was  frequently  seen  as- 
cending to  the  mast-head  with  the  dexterity  of  an  ex 
perienced  seaman.  But  the  alternate  smooth  and  bil 
lowed  breast  of  the  ocean  had  not  suflicient  variety 
to  satisfy  his  nature,  and  in  1803  he  again  set  his 
foot  upon  the  turf  of  green  Erin.  He  soon  after  mar- 
ried at  Limerick,  and  resorted  to  the  exercise  of  his 
bagpipes,  on  which  he  was  a  perfect  performer,  and 
to  mechanical  ingenuity,  as  means  of  support. 

About  this  time  he  commenced  building  an  organ, 
and  admirably  succeeded,  without  the  least  assist- 
ance. Soon  after  completing  this  instrument,  he 
moved  to  the  city  of  Cork,  where  he  purchased  ac 
organ,  for  the  purpose  of  making  himself  better  ac- 
quainted with  its  mechanism.  After  dissecting  and 
examining  all  its  parts  minutely,  he  built  a  second 
instrument  of  this  kind,  of  a  superior  tone  and  finish. 
In  this  way  Mr.  Talbot  maintained  a  large  family  in 
respectability  and  comfort. 
•    Among  these  sons  of  Jubal,  we  must  not  omit  our 


,  THEIR    ACHIEVEMKNTS.  259 

own  John  Helltck,  a  native  of  Kortliarapton  county, 
Pennsylvania,  who  lived  at  the  beginning  of  the  pres- 
ent century,  and  lost  his  sight  in  youth.  Among  the 
many  fine  musical  instruments  which  this  man  con- 
structed, without  the  least  assistance,  was  an  organ 
that  would  have  reflected  credit  upon  any  workman 
skilled  in  this  art,  and  in  possession  of  perfect  sight. 

These  examples  must  prove  beyond  a  shadow  of 
doubt,  to  every  reflecting  mind,  that  af^  perfect  a 
Knowledge  of  form  and  structure  can  be  obtained  by 
the  sense  oiF  touch  as  by  that  of  sight.  They  seem, 
also,  to  indicate  that  the  blind  derive  as  much  pleas- 
ure from  the  exercise  of  tbsir  ingenuity  as  any  other 
class  of  men,  since  a  genius  is  always  more  impelled 
to  labor  from  a  desire  to  give  tangible  form  to  his  in- 
ventions, or  ideal  images,  than  by  the  real  value  of 
the  article  when  completed. 

But  perhaps  the  most  complete  triumph  of  tactual 
perfection  over  want  of  sight,  that  history  records,  ia 
to  be  found  in  the  artistic  skill  of  John  Gonelli,  some- 
times called  Gambasio,  from  the  place  of  his  birth  in 
Tuscany.  This  remarkable  person  lost  his  sight  at  the 
age  of  twenty,  and  after  having  been  in  this  condi- 
tion about  ten  years,  he  first  manifested  a  taste  foi 
sculpture.  His  first  work  in  this  art,  was  to  imitate 
a  marble  figure,  representing  Cosmo  de  Medici,  which 
he  formed  of  clay,  and  rendered  a  strikingly  perfect 
likeness  of  the  original.  His  talent  for  statuary  soon 
developed  itself  to  such  a  degree  that  the  Grand 
Duke  Ferdinand,  of  Tuscany,  sent  him  to  Rome  *o 


260  BEA0TIE8    OF    THE    BLLND. 

model  a  statue  of  Pope  Urban  VIII.,  which  he  com 
pleted  to  the  entire  satisfaction  of  his  patron.  It  is 
supposed  that  this  is  the  same  famous  blind  sculptor 
whom  Roger  de  Piles  met  with  in  the  Justinian  pal- 
ace, where  he  was  modeling,  in  clay,  a  figure  of  Mi- 
nerva. It  is  related  that  the  Duke  of  Bracciano, 
who  had  seen  him  at  work,  doubted  much  that  he 
ivas  completely  blind,  and  in  order  to  set  the  matter 
at  rest,  he  caused  the  artist  to  model  his  head  in  a 
dark  cellar.  It  proved  a  striking  likeness.  Some, 
however,  objecting  that  the  duke's  beard,  which  was 
of  patriarchial  ahaplitude,  had  made  the  operation  of 
producing  a  seeming  likeness  too  easy,  the  artist 
oti'ered  to  model  one  of  the  duke's  daughters,  which 
lie  accordingly  did  ;  and  this  also  proved  an  admira- 
ble likeness.  Among  his  numerous  other  works  is  a 
marble  statue  of  Charles  L,  of  England,  said  to  be 
finely  finished.  So  far  as  this  art  pertains  to  the 
form  and  contour  of  a  statue,  it  is  not  more  difficult  for 
a  blind  person  to  pursue,  than  others  adverted  to  in 
this  section.  But  to  engrave  upon  a  marble  statue 
that  intangible,  life-like  expression,  in  which  mainly 
consists  the  mdividual  similitude,  is  altogether  extra- 
ordinary, and  must  be  regarded  as  the  climax  of 
tactual  attainments. 


THEIB   ACHIEVEMENTS.  261 

SECTION  n. 

MISCELLANEOUS   OCCUPATIONS. 

.  Whatever  serves  to  illustrate  a  condition  to  which 
by  the  vicissitudes  of  life  every  person  is  exposed, 
cannot  fail  to  awaken  interest  in  the  public  mind. 
In  view  of  this  fact,  we  shall  devote  this  section  to 
the  notice  .of  such  characters  who,  on  account  of 
their  various  pursuits,  would  not  admit  of  regular 
classification,  yet  whose  honorable  attainments  may 
afford  interest  to  the  general  reader,  and  many  valu 
able  hints  to  our  class. 

Among  these  may  be  mentioned  Wimprecht,  the 
bookseller  of  Augsburgh,  who  was  sightless  from 
birth,  yet  by  his  energy  and  perseverance  secured  a 
good  education,  and  is  at  present  maintaining  a  large 
family  in  respectability  and  comfort,  from  the  profits 
of  his  thriving  business.  His  stock  usually  consists 
of  about  eight  or  nine  thousand  volumes,  which  he 
frequently  reviews  with  no  other  assist-ance  than  his 
intelligent  wife.  His  honesty,  obliging  deportment, 
and  general  acquaintance  with  books,  have  secured 
for  him  a  large  and  profitable  business. 

We  are  informed  of  another  blind  person,  who  is 
the  proprietor  of  a  "  music  store,"  at  Plymouth,  En- 
gland, and  by  this  employment,  together  with  the 
teaching  of  music,  has  placed  liimself  in  very  inde- 
pendent circumstances. 

It  is  evident  that  our  class  is  by  no  means  exempt 


262  bp:auties  of  the  blind. 

from  the  law  of  necessity,  imposed  upon  Adam  by 
the  divine  declaration,  viz,  "  In  the  sweat  of  thy  face 
shalt  thou  eat  bread."  Yet  it  is  perhaps  worthy  of 
remark,  that  few  among  us  have  engaged  in  the  cul- 
tivation of  the  ground,  as  a  means  of  support.  For 
this  we  can  assign  no  better  reason  than  has  already 
been  hinted,  viz,  that  the  greatest  inconvenience  at- 
tendant on  the  lack  of  sight  in  the  industrial  pursuits, 
is  the  inability  to  transport  ourselves  \yith  facility 
from  place  to  place,  and  this  difficulty  is  perliaps 
most. felt  in  farming.  Yet  as  proof  that  even  tiiis 
branch  of  business  is  not  altogether  beyond  our  reach, 
we  record  the  name  of  John  Hall,  brother  of  one  of 
the  present  writers,  who  has  been  successfully  en- 
gaged for  several  years  in  agricultural  pursuits,  not- 
withstanding his  lack  of  sight  from  birth,  and  is  at 
present  an  able  and  respectable  farmer  in  the  state 
of  Ohio.  Nor  are  his  labors  confined  (as  some  may 
suppose)  to  the  mere  supervision  or  management  of 
his  farm  ;  there  are  really  but  few  kinds  of  labor  m 
which  he  cannot  engage  with  nearly  as  much  dexter- 
ity as  though  he  possessed  perfect  sight.  The  worjj 
of  preparing  his  ground  for  seed,  sowing,  dragging, 
&c.,  is  of  course  performed  by  his  hired  man  ;  but  m 
liarvest  time  John  is  at  his  post,  and  can  perform,  as 
tie  chooses  to  express  it,  as  big  a  day's  work  as  the 
next  man.  He  has  yet  scarcely  passed  the  meridian 
of  life,  has  an  amiable  and  affectionate  companion, 
and  two  rosy,  bright-eyed  boys,  who  seem  to  ha-^e 


THEIR   ACHIEVEMENTS.  26? 

inherited  the  enterprising  spirit  of  their  father,  bu' 
not  his  misfortune. 

In  all  the  labors  and  engagements  of  life,  heroic 
courage  is  one  of  the  most  essential  virtues.  No  mat- 
ter how  favorable  may  be  the  circumstances  at  the 
outset,  before  any  great  enterprise  is  terminated,  we 
always  find  occasion  to  call  this  principle  into  requi- 
sition. Swift  says  that  "  blindness  is  an  inducement 
to  courage,  because  it  hides  from  us  the  danger  which 
is  before  us."  How  far  the  dean  may  be  right  in 
his  conjectures,  we  shall  not  here  endeavor  to 
determine. 

But  to  illustrate  that  lack  of  sight  does  not  intimi- 
date or  disqualify  us  for  great  encounters,  even  when 
dangers  are  most  apparent,  we  record  the  name  and 
a  few  adventures  of  Zisca,  tlie  Bohemian  reformer. 
This  distinguished  patriot  was  a  native  of  Bohemia. 
His  real  name  was  John  de  Troczuow,  but  in  the 
coui*se  of  his  military  services  he*  lost  his  left  eye, 
from  which  circumstance  he  was  called  Zisca,  that 
word,  in  the  Bohemian  language,  signifying  one-eyed. 
He  served  for  some  time  in  the  Danish  and  Polish 
armies,  but  on  the  conclusion  of  the  wars  he  returned 
to  his  native  country.  The  Council  of  Constance, 
which  had  then  assembled  (1414)  for  the  purpose  of 
rooting  heresy  out  of  the  churches,  and  at  whose 
command  John  Huss  and  Jerome  of  Prague,  were 
burned  at  the  stake,  sent  terror  and  consternation 
throughout  Bohemia,  and  its  cruel  and  unjust  de- 
crees filled  the  public  mind  with  horror  and  indigna 


264  BEAUTIES   OF  THE    BLUTO. 

tion.  The  people  at  last  became  exceedingly  exaspe- 
rated against  the  pope  and  the  emperor,  on  account 
of  their  cruelties,  and  were  obliged  t,^  take  up  arras 
in  defense  of  their  lives,  and  chose  Zisca  as  their  gen 
eral,  who  soon  found  himself  at  the  head  of  forty 
thousand  patriots.  But  at  the  siege  of  Ruby,  while 
viewing  a  part  of  the  works  on  which  he  intended  an 
assault,  an  arrow  from  the  enemy  struck  him  in  his 
remaining  eye,  and  when  extricated  tore  out  tlie  eye 
with  it.  This  accident  caused  his  whole  devoted 
army  to  mourn  ;  for,  while  under  the  gleaming  of 
their  general's  sword,  triumphant  victory  awaited 
tliem  in  every  contest. 

He  was  carried  to  Prague  by  his  weeping  soldiers, 
and  his  life  was  for  some  time  despaired  of.  After 
much  pain  and  suffering,  however,  he  recovered,  but 
with  no  other  hope  before  him  than  of  spending  the 
remainder  of  his  days  in  total  blindness.  But,  like 
Sampson  of  old,  he  drew  more  dreadful  destruction 
upon  the  heads  of  his  enemies,  after  this  misfortune, 
than  he  before  had  done.  His  friends  were  surprised 
to  hear  him  talk,  after  his  recovery,  of  setting  out  for 
the  army,  and  did  all  in  their  power  to  dissuade  him, 
but  he  remained  fixed  in  his  resolutions.  "  1  have 
yet,"  said  he,  "  my  blood  to  shed  for  the  liberties  of  Bo- 
hemia. She  is  enslaved ;  her  sons  are  deprived  of 
their  natural  rights,  and  are  the  victims  of  a  system 
of  spiritual  tyranny  as  degrading  to  the  character  of 
man  as  it  is  destructive  of  every  moral  principle; 
therefore,  Bohemia  must  and  shall  be  free.''     True  to 


THEIR   ACHIEVEMENTS.  SJ65 

the  magnanimity  of  soul  tliat  characterized  his  event- 
ful life,  he  again  presented  himself  to  the  army,  a 
few  months  after  his  privation,  and  was  hailed  witb 
loud  and  joyful  acclamations,  by  a  soldiery  whom  his 
presence  ever  inspired  with  invincible  courage. 

When  the  news  came  to  the  Emperor  Sigismond; 
that  Zisca  had  again  taken  the  field,  he  called  a  con- 
vention  of  all  the  states  in  his  empire,  at  Nurem- 
burgh,  and  entreated  them,  for  the  sake  of  their  sov- 
ereign, for  the  honor  of  their  empire,  and  for  the 
cause  of  their  religion,  to  put  themselves  in  arms. 
His  harangue  had  its  desired  effect ;  proper  meas- 
ures were  concerted,  and  the  assembly  broke  up  with 
a  unanimous  resolution  to  make  this  audacious  rebel 
feel  the  full  weight  of  the  empire.  Accordingly,  the 
news  came  to  Zisca  that  two  large  armies  were  in 
readiness  to  march  against  him,  one  composed  of  con- 
federate Germans,  under  the  Marquis  of  Branden- 
burgh,  the  Archbishop  of  Mentz,  Count  Palatine  of 
the  Rhine,  and  other  princes ;  the  other  of  Hungari- 
ans and  Silesians,  under  the  emperor  himself.  The 
former  was  to  invade  Bohemia  on  the  west,  the  latter 
on  the  east ;  they  were  to  meet  in  the  center,  and,  as 
they  e::v  pressed  it,  crush  this  handful  of  vexatious  sec- 
taries between  them.  But  it  appears  that  the  blind 
reforms  r  was  not  to  be  frightened  by  threats  nor  im- 
perial grmaments.  He  knew  that  his  army  could  not 
cope  in  number  with  those  of  his  enemies,  but  with 
the  firm  conviction  that  every  soldier  was  ready  to 
lay  down  his  life  for  his  country,  and  that  the  God 


266  BEAUTIES   OF  THE   BLIND. 

of  hosts  smiled  with  approbation  upon  his  cause,  he 
placed  himself  in  readiness  to  meet  the  shock. 

After  some  delay  the  einperor  entered  Bohemia  at 
the  head  of  his  army,  the  flower  of  which  was  fifteen 
thousand  Hungarians,  deemed  at  that  time  the  best 
cavalry  in  Europe,  and  led  by  a  Florentine  officer  of 
great  experience,  and  the  infantry,  which  consisted 
of  twenty-five  thousand  men,  were  equally  fine,  and 
well  commanded.  This  force  spread  terror  through- 
out all  the  east  of  Bohemia.  Wherever  Sigismond 
marched,  the  magistrates  laid  their  keys  at  his  feet, 
and  were  treated  with  severity  or  favor,  according  as 
they  were  well  or  ill  affected  towards  his  cause.  His 
bold  career  was,  however,  presently  checked.  As 
soon  as  the  news  of  the  emperor's  devastation  reached 
Zisca,  he  put  his  army  in  motion,  and  rapidly  ad- 
vanced towards  the  enemy.  On  the  13th  of  Janu- 
ary, 1422,  the  two  armies  met  on  a  large  plain,  near 
Kamnitz.  Sigismond  took  great  care  in  the  selection 
of  his  ground,  and  in  the  arrangement  of  his  army, 
and  was  elated  with  the  hope  of  crushing  this  hith- 
erto invincible  chief,  who  could  neither  be  terrified 
by  mandates  nor  conquered  by  arms.  No  general 
paid  less  regard  to  the  circumstances  of  time  and 
place  than  Zisca.  He  seldom  desired  more  than  to 
come  up  with  his  adversary  ;  the  impetuosity  and 
heroism  of  his  troops  supplied  the  rest. 

But  on  this  occasion,  when  the  liberties  of  his 
country  and  the  interests  of  the  reform  depended 
upon  the  result  of  the  engagement,  all  necessary  pre- 


THEIE   ACHIEVEMENTS.  267 

\  vrHtions  were  made  with  circumspection  and  care. 
Wlien  the  two  armies  were  drawn  up  in  battle  array, 
Zisca  appeared  in  the  center  of  his  front  line,  guarded 
or  rather  conducted  by  a  horseman  on  each  side, 
armed  with  a  poleax.  His  troops  having  sung  a 
hymn  with  determined  coolness,  drew  their  swords, 
and  waited  for  the  signal.  Zisca  stood  not  long  in 
view  of  the  enemy,  and  when  his  officers  had  in- 
formed him  that  the  ranks  were  well  closed,  he  waved 
his  sabre  over  his  head,  which  was  the  signal  of  bat- 
tle, and  never  was  there  an  onset, more  mighty  and 
irresistible.  As  dash  a  thousand  waves  against  the 
rock-bound  shore,  so  Zisca  rolled  his  steel-fronted  le- 
gions upon  the  foe.  The  imperial  infantry  hardly 
made  a  stand,  and  in  the  space  of  a  few  minutes  they 
were  disordered  beyond  a  possibility  of  being  rallied. 
The  cavalry  made  a  desperate  effort  to  maintain  the 
field,  but  finding  themselves  unsupported,  they 
wheeled  round  and  fled  upon  the  spur.  Thus  was 
the  extensive  plain,  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach, 
suddenly  overspread  with  disorder,  the  pursuers  and 
the  pursued  mingling  together,  in  one  indistinct  mass 
Df  waving  confusion  ;  here  and  there  might  be  seen  a 
few  parties  endeavoring  to  unite,  but  they  were  bro- 
ken as  soon  as  formed.  The  routed  army  fled  to- 
ward the  confines  of  Moravia,  the  patriots,  without 
intermission,  galling  their  rear.  The  river  Igla,  which 
was  then  frozen,  opposed  tlieir  flight,  and  here  new 
disasters  befel  them.  Tlie  bridge  being  immediately 
choked,  and  the  enemy  pressing  furiously  on,  many 


268  BEAUTIES   OF  THE   BLIND. 

of  the  infantry  and  the  whole  body  of  cavalry  at- 
tempted tlie  river;  the  ice  gave  vay,  and  not  fewer 
than  two  thousand  were  swallowed  up  in  the  water. 
Here  Zisca  sheathed  his  sword,  and  returned  in  tri- 
umph to  Tabore,  hiden  with  all  the  trophies  which 
the  most  complete  victory  could  give. 

But  the  heroic  reformer's  labors  had  not  yet  ended. 
The  emperor,  exasperated  by  his  defeat,  raised  new 
and  immense  armies,  which  he  sent  a<:;ainst  Zisca  in 
the  following  spring,  and  with  which  he  determined 
to  root  heresy  out  of  his  dominions.  With  this  view, 
he  placed  the  Marquis  Misnia  at  the  head  of  a  con- 
siderahle  body  of  Saxons,  who  were  to  penetrate  by 
the  way  of  Upper  Saxt  ny,  while  he  himself,  at  the 
head  of  another  army,  should  enter  Moravia,  on  the 
side  of  Hungary.  But  the  blind  general,  determined 
that  his  country  should  not  be  enslaved  while  he  had 
strength  to  wield  a  sword,  gathered  his  brave  army,  > 
and  laid  siege  to  Ausig,  a  strong  town  situated  on  the 
Elbe.  When  he  had  reduced  the  ])lace  to  its  last  ex- 
tremity, the  marquis  a])peared  at  tlie  head  of  an  im- 
mense army,  and  offered  him  buttle.  His  maxim 
being  never  to  decline  figiiting,  he  accepted  the  chal- 
lenge, tiiough  he  had  many  ditiirulties  to  encounter. 
An  engagement  ensued,  in  which  the  Saxons  were 
utterly  routed,  leaving  no  less  than  nine  thousand  of 
their  number  dead  on  the  field.  By  this  victory, 
Ausig,  with  all  its  surrounding  country,  fell  into  the 
hands  <»f  Zisca. 

The  other  branch  of  the  imperial  army,  under  the 


THEIR    ACniETEMENTS.  269 

Command  of  Sigismond,  meeting  the  same  fate,  the  em- 
peror was  obliged,  after  having  carried  on  the  unpro- 
voked contest  for  a  number  of  years,  to  sue  for  peace. 
Our  blind  hero  having  taken  up  arms  only  to  secure 
peace,  he  was  glad  for  an  opportunity  to  lay  them 
down.  No  ambitious  thirst  for  power  inspired  his 
breast.  "When  his  grateful  countrymen  requested 
him  to  accept  the  crown  of  Bohemia,  as  a  reward 
for  his  eminent  services,  he  respectfully  declined. 
"  While  you  find  me  of  service  to  your  designs,"  said 
the  disinterested  chief,  you  may  freely  command  both 
my  counsels  and  my  sword,  but  I  will  never  accept 
any  established  autiiority ;  on  the  contrary,  my  most 
earnest  advice  to  you  is,  when  the  perverseness  of 
your  enemies  allows  you  peace,  to  trust  yourselves 
no  longer  in  the  hands  of  kings,  but  to  form  your- 
selves into  a  republic,  which  species  of  government 
only  can  secure  your  liberties." 

After  a  few  couriers  had  passed  between  them,  a 
place  of  congress  was  appointed,  and  Zisca,  attended 
by  the  principal  oflicei's  of  his  army,  set  out  to  meet 
the  emperor.  But  the  reformer  lived  not  to  put  a 
finishing  hand  to  this  treaty.  In  passing  through  a 
part  of  the  coimtry  where  a  contagious  epidemic  was 
prevailing,  he  was  seized  by  the  infection,  and  died 
on  the  6th  of  October,  1424,  at  a  time  when  all  his 
labors  were  ended,  and  his  great  purposes  almost 
completed. 

The  remains  of  this  great  man  were  dejmsited  in 
the  church  at  Craslow,  in  Bohemia,  where  a  monu- 


270  BEAUTIES   OF   THE  BLIND. 

uient  was  erected  to  his  memory,  with  an  iiiscnpiior. 
to  tiiis  purport :  "  Here  lies  John  Zisca,  wlio,  hav 
iiig  defended  his  country  against  the  encroach iiienta 
of  papal  tyranny,  rests  in  this  hallowed  place,  in  de 
spite  of  the  pope." 

In  the  daring  courage  of  John,  the  blind  king  of 
Bohemia,  who  fell  in  the  famous  battle  of  Cressy,  we 
have  another  illustration  of  the  fact  that  sight  is  nor 
always  a  requisite  to  valor.  This  king,  who  had  beeb 
blind  for  many  years,  anxious  to  know  how  the  bat- 
tle proceeded,  was  led  forward  during  the  heat  of  the 
engagement,  and  when  the  clang  of  arms  fell  upon 
his  ear,  he  turned  to  his  lords,  and  said  :  "  Gentle- 
men, you  are  men,  my  companions  and  friends  in  this 
expedition  ;  I  only  now  desire  this  last  piece  of  ser- 
vice from  you,  that  you  would  bring  me  forward  so 
near  to  these  Englishmen  that  I  may  deal  among 
them  one  good  stroke  with  my  sword."  They  all 
said  they  would  obey  him  to  the  death,  and  lest  by 
any  extremity  they  should  be  separated  from  him, 
they  all,  with  one  consent,  tied  the  reins  of  their 
horses  one  to  another,  and  so  attended  their  royal 
master  into  battle.  Tliere  this  valiant  old  hero  had 
his  desire,  and  came  boldly  up  to  the  Prince  of  Wales, 
and  gave  more  than  one,  four  or  five  good  strokes, 
and  fought  courageously,  as  also  did  all  his  lords,  and 
others  about  him ;  but  they  engaged  themselves  so 
far  that  they  were  all  slain,  and  next  day  found  dead 
about  the  body  of  their  king,  and  their  horses'  bridles 
tied  together. 


THEIB   ACHIEVEMENTS.  271 

Perhaps  the  most  complete  triumph  of  mental  en- 
ergy over  physical  circumstances  which  the  history 
of  man  affords,  is  exhibited  in  the  career  of  John 
Metcalf.  We  have  reserved  the  summarj^  of  his 
novel  adventures  for  the  conclusion  of  this  paper,  for 
the  reason  that  his  attainments  were  so  various,  and 
many  of  them  so  peculiar  to  himself,  that  he  seems 
decidedly  an  odd  link  in  the  chain.  Metcalf  was 
born  in  1717,  at  Knaresborough,  Yorkshire,  and  lost 
his  sight  at  six  years  of  age.  Tliis  disability  did  not, 
however,  prevent  him  from  joining  boys  of  his  own 
age  in  their  juvenile  pranks  of  taking  birds'  nests  and 
robbing -orchards,  and,  as  his  father  kept  horses,  he 
learned  to  ride,  and  soon  became  a  good  horseman. 
At  the  age  of  thirteen  he  was  taught  music,  an  ac- 
complishment which  he  afterward  turned  to  great 
utility,  being  employed  for  several  years  as  chief 
player  at  the  assemblies  of  Harrowgate.  Here  he 
was  a  favorite  of  the  visiting  nobility  and  gentry.  In 
this  employment  he  passed  his  evenings,  and  the 
mornings  he  spent  in  cock-fighting,  hunting,  and 
coursing. 

At  the  age  of  twenty -one  Metcalf  was  extremely 
robust,  six  feet  one  inch  and  a  half  in  height,  pos- 
sessed a  peculiar  archness  of  disposition,  with  an  un- 
common flow  of  spirits,  and  though  his  conduct  was 
long  marked  by  a  variety  of  mischievous  tricks,  yet 
he  afterward  planned  and  brought  to  perfection  sev- 
eral schemes,  both  of  private  and  public  utility.  In- 
deed, there  are  but  few  fields  of  enterprise  in  whv  'i 


272  BEAimES    OF   THE    BLIND. 

he  was  not  engaged,  and  what  was  most  strange,  he 
usually  selected  those  in  which  sight  appears  most  es- 
sential. He  kept  chaises  at  Knaresborough  for  pub- 
lic accommodation,  and  ran  a  stage  between  that 
place  and  York,  which  he  drove  himself.  In  1745, 
he  enlisted  as  musician  in  the  army  ;  later,  largely 
engaged  in  contraband  importation  of  Scottish  goods 
and  subsequently  became  an  extensive  projector  and 
builder  of  public  roads. 

Dr.  Bew,  who  was  pen^onally  acquainted  with  Met- 
calf,  in  his  account  of  him,  says  :  "  This  man  passed 
the  younger  part  of  his  life  as  a  wagoner,  and  occa- 
sionally as  a  guide  in  intricate  roa<ls  during  the  night 
or  when  the  tracks  were  covered  with  snow.  Strange 
as  this  may  appear  to  those  who  can  see,  the  employ- 
ment he  has  since  undertaken  is  still  more  extraordi- 
nary ;  it  is  one  of  the  last  to  which  we  would  suppose 
a  blind  man  would  overturn  his  attention.  Plis  pres- 
ent occupation  is  that  of  projector  and  surveyor  of 
highways  in  difficult  and  mountainous  parts.  With 
the  assistance,  only,  of  a  long  staff,  I  have  several 
times  met  this  man  traversing  the  roads,  ascending 
precipices,  exploring  valleys,  and  investigating  their 
several  extents,  forms  and  situations,  so  as  to  answer 
his  designs  in  the  best  manner.  The  plans  which  he 
designs,  and  the  estimates  he  makes,  are  done  in  a 
method  peculiar  to  himself,  and  which  he  cannot  well 
convey  the  meaning  of  to  others.  His  abilities  in 
this  respect,  are,  nevertheless,  so  great,  that  he  finds 
constant  employment.     Most  of  the  roads  over  the 


THKIK   ACHIEVEMENTS.  273 

peaks  in  Derbyshire  have  been  altered  by  liis  direc- 
tions, particularly  those  in  the  vicinity  of  Buxton  ; 
and  he  is  at  this  time  constructing  a  new  one  between 
Winslow  and  Congleton,  with  a  view  to  open  a  com- 
munication to  the  great  London  road,  without  being 
obliged  to  pass  over  the  mountains."  Mr.  Bcw  adds 
in  a  note,  "  Since  this  paper  was  written,  1  have 
met  this  blind  projector  of  roads,  who  was  alone,  as 
usual,  and  among  other  conversation,  I  made  some 
inquiries  concerning  this  new  road.  It  was  really 
astonishing  to  hear  with  what  accuracy  he  described 
the  courses,  and  the  nature  of  the  ditferent  soils 
through  which  it  was  conducted.  Having  mentioned 
to  him  a  boggy  piece  of  ground  it  passed  through,  he 
observed  that  '  that  was  the  only  place  he  had  doubts 
concerning ;  and  that  he  was  apprehensive  they  had, 
contrary  to.  his  directions,  been  too  sparing  of  their 
materials.' " 

"Among  the  numerous  roads  which  Metcalf  con- 
tracted to  make,  was  part  of  the  Manchester  road, 
from  Blackmoor  to  Standish  Foot.  As  it  was  not 
marked  out,  the  surveyor,  contrary  to  expectation, 
took  it  over  deep  marshes,  out  of  which  it  was  the 
opinion  of  the  trustees,  that  it  would  be  necessary  to 
dig  the  earth  till  they  came  to  a  solid  bottom.  This 
plan  appeared  to  Metcalf  extremely  tedious  and  ex 
pensive,  and  liable  to  other  disadvantages  ;  he  there 
fore  argued  the  point  privately  with  the  surveyor,  and 
several  other  gentlemen,  but  they  were  all  immovea- 
ble IP  their  former  opinion.     Metcalf  attended  theii 


274  BEAUTIES   OF  THE   BLIND. 

next  meeting,  and  addressed  them  in  the  foi  >wing 
manner :  Gentlemen,  I  propose  to  make  thu  road 
over  the  marshes  after  mj  own  plan,  and  if  it  does 
not  answer,  I  will  be  at  the  expense  of  making  it 
over  again,  after  yours.  To  this  proposal  they  as- 
sented. Having  engaged  to  complete  nine  miles  in 
ten  months,  he  began  in  six  diflerent  parts,  nearly 
four  hundred  men  being  employed.  One  of  the  pla- 
ces was  peat,  and  Standish  Common  was  a  deep  bog, 
over  which  it  was  thought  impracticable  to  make  any 
road.  Here  he  cast  it  fourteen  yards  wide,"  raising  it 
in  a  circular  form,  and  the  water,  which,  in  many 
places,  ran  across  the  road,  was  carried  off  by  drains ; 
but  he  found  the  greatest  difficulty  in  conveying 
stones  to  the  spot,  on  account  of  the  softness  of  the 
ground.  Those  who  passed  that  way  to  Hudderslield 
Market,  were  not  sparing  in  their  censure  of  the  un- 
dertaking, and  even  doubted  whether  it  would  ever 
De  conjpleted.  Having,  however,  leveled  the  piece 
to  the  end,  he  ordered  his  men  to  collect  heather  or 
ling,  and  bind  it  in  round  bundles,  which  they  could 
span  with  their  hands  ;  these  were  placed  close  to 
gether,  and  another  row  laid  over  them,  upon  whicn 
they  were  well  pressed  down,  and  covered  with  stone 
and  gravel.  This  piece  being  about  half  a  mile  in 
length,  when  completed,  was  so  remarkably  fine, 
tliat  any  person  might  have  gone  over  it  in  winter 
unshod,  without  being  wet ;  and,  though  other  parts 
of  the  road  soon  wanted  repairing,  this  needed  none 
for  twelve  years." 


THKIR   ACHIEVEMENTS.  27f 

A  few  anecdotes  of  his  early  adveutiires  may  noi 
be  without  interest  to  the  reader. 

When  about  the  age  of  fourteen,  Metcalf,  with 
some  other  young  men,  expressed  a  great  desire  for 
a  day's  sport ;  and  knowing  that  Mr.  Woodburn,  the 
master  of  the  Knaresborough  pack  of  hounds,  had 
often  lent  them  to  Metcalf  for  the  same  purpose,  they 
doubted  not  of  the  success  of  his  application.  On 
the  evening  before  the  appointed  day,  Metcalf  went^ 
flushed  with  hope,  to  Mr.  Woodburn,  requesting  him 
to  lend  fhe  pack  for  the  next  day.  This  was  a  favor 
out  of  his  power  to  grant,  having  to  meet  Squire 
Trapps  with  the  hounds,  next  morning,  upon  Scoton 
Moor,  for  the  purpose  of  entering  some  young  fox- 
hounds. Chagrined  at  this,  Metcalf  debated  with 
himself  whether  tlie  disappointment  should  fall  on 
Mr.  Woodburn's  friends,  or  his  own  :  determining 
that  it  should  not  be  the  lot  of  the  latter,  he  arose, 
the  next  morning,  before  daybreak,  and  crossed  the 
high  bridge,  near  which  he  had  the  advantage  of  the 
joint  echoes  of  the  old  castle  and  Belniont-wood. 
He  had  brought  with  him  an  extraordinarily  good 
hound  of  his  own,  and  taking  him  by  the  ears,  made 
bim  give  month  very  loudly,  himself  giving  some 
balloos  at  the  same  time.  This  device  had  so  g-ood 
an  effect  that,  in  a  few  minutes,  he  had  nine  couples 
about  him,  as  the  hounds  were  kept  by  various  peo- 
ple about  the  shambles,  and  were  suffered  to  lie  un- 
kenneled. Mounting  his  horse,  away  he  rode  with 
the  dogs,  to  Harrowgate,  where  he  met  his  friends. 


276  BEAUTIES    OF   THE    BLIND. 

ready  mounted,  and  in  high  spirits.  Some  of  them 
proposed  going  to  Bilton-wood,  near  Knaresborough, 
but  this  was  opposed  by  Metcalf,  who  preferred  the 
moor;  in  fact,  he  was  apprehensive  of  being  followed 
by  Mr.  Woodburn,  and  wished  to  be  farther  from 
Knaresborough,  on  that  account.  Pursuant  to  his 
advice,  they  drew  the  moor  at  the  distance  of  five 
miles,  when  they  started  a  hare,  killed  her  after  a 
fine  chase,  and  immediately  put  up  another  :  just  at 
this  moment  came  up  Mr.  Woodburn,  very  angry, 
threatening  to  send  Metcalf  to  the  house  of'  correc- 
tion, and  his  passion  rising  to  the  utmost,  he  rode  up 
with  an  intention  to  horsewhip  him,  which  Metcalf 
prevented  by  galloping  out  of  his  reach.  Mr.  Wood- 
burn  then  endeavored  to  call  off  the  hounds,  but 
Metcalf,  knowing  the  fleetness  of  his  own  horee,  ven- 
tured within  speaking,  though  not  within  whipping 
distance  of  him,  and  begged  that  he  would  not  spoil 
them  by  taking  them  off,  and  that  he  was  sure  that 
they  would  (as  they  actually  did)  kill  in  a  very  short 
time.  Metcalf  soon  found  that  Mr.  Woodburn's  an- 
ger had  begun  to  abate,  and,  going  nearer  to  him, 
pleaded  a  misunderstanding  of  his  plan,  which,  he 
said,  he  thought  had  been  fixed  for  the  day  after. 
The  apology  succeeded  with  this  good-natured  gen- 
tleman, who,  giving  the  hare  to  Metcalf,  desired  he 
would  accompany  him  to  Scoton  Moor,  whither, 
though  late,  he  would  go,  rather  than  wholly  disap- 
point Mr.  Trapps.  Metcalf  proposed  to  his  friend  to 
cross    the   river   Nid   at   Holm  Bottom ;     and  Mr. 


THEIK    ACHIEVKMBajTS.  277 

Woodburn,  not  being  acquainted  with  the  ford,  he 
again  undertook  the  office  of  guide,  and  leading  the 
way,  they  soon  arrived  at  Scoton  Moor,  where  Mr. 
Trapps  and  his  company  had  waited  for  them  several 
hours.  Mr.  Woodburn  explained  the  cause  of  the 
delay,  and  being  now  able  to  participate  in  the  joke, 
the  aflair  ended  very  agreeably. 

Our  young  hero,  also  frequented  the  hippodromes 
at  York,  and  other  places.  At  the  races,  he  com- 
monly rode  in  among  the  crowd,  and  was  often  suc- 
cessful in  his  bets,  in  which  he  was,  however,  assisted 
by  several  gentlemen,  to  whom  he  was  known.  Hav 
ing  once  matched  one  of  his  horses  to  run  three  miles 
for  a  considerable  wager,  and  the  parties  agreeing  each 
to  ride  his  own  horse,  they  set  up  posts  at  certain 
distances  on  the  Forest  Moor,  describing  a  circle  of 
one  mile,  having,  consequently,  to  go  three  times 
round  the  course.  Under  the  idea  that  Metcalf  would 
be  unable  to  keep  the  course,  great  odds  were  laid 
against  him,  but  his  ingenuity  furnished  him  with  an 
expedient  in  this  dilemma.  He  procured  some  bells, 
and  placing  a  man  with  one  at  each  post,  was  ena- 
bled by  the  ringing  to  judge  when  to  turn  ;  by  this 
contrivance,  and  the  superior  speed  of  his  horse,  he 
came  in  winner  amidst  the  applauses  of  all  present, 
except  those  who  had  betted  against  him. 

We  also  give  place  to  the  following  account  of  his 
marriage :  At  the  Koyal  Oak,  (an  inn,)  where  Mel- 
calf  was  in  the  habit  of  spending  his  evenings, 
after  the  season  at  Harrowgate,  he  attracted  the  no- 


2 16  BEAUTIES   OF   THE   BLIND. 

tice  of  Miss  Benson,  the  landlady's  daughter,  whose 
constant  attention  and  kindness  soon  inspired  him 
with  a  reciprocal  affection  :  knowing,  however,  that 
her  mother  would  oppose  their  union,  various  suc- 
cessful devices  were  employed  to  conceal  their  mu- 
tual partiality  and  frequent  meetings.  An  event, 
however,  occurred,  which  obliged  Metcalf  to  quit  not 
only  the  object  of  his  attachment,  but  likewise  that 
part  of  the  country.  During  his  absencq,  a  Mr.  Dick- 
enson had  paid  his  addresses  to  Miss  Benson,  and 
now  urged  his  suit  with  such  ardor,  that  the  banns 
were  published,  and  the  wedding-day  appointed,  to 
the  no  small  mortification  of  Metcalf,  who  thought 
himself  secure  of  her  affections.  But,  though  he 
loved  her  tenderly,  his  pride  prevented  him  from 
manifesting  his  feelings,  or  attempting  to  prevent  the 
match.  On  the  day  preceding  that  on  which  the 
nuptials  were  to  be  celebrated,  Metcalf,  riding  past 
the  Royal  Oak,  was  accosted  with, "  One  wants  to 
speak  with  you."  He  immediately  turned  toward 
the  stables  of  the  Oak,  and  there,  to  his  joy  and  sur- 
prise, he  found  the  object  of  his  love,  who  had  sent 
her  mother's  servant  to  call  him.  After  some  ex- 
planation, an  elopement  was  resolved  upon,  which 
Metcalf,  with  the  assistance  of  a  friend,  effected  that 
night,  and  the  next  morning  they  were  united.  The 
confusion  of  his  rival,  who  had  provided  an  enter- 
tainment for  two  hundred  people,  may  easily  be  ima- 
gined. Mrs.  Benson,  enraged  at  her  daughter's  con- 
duct, rcfjised  either  to  see  her  or  give  up  her  clothes 


THEIR    ACHIEVEMENTS.  279 

nor  was  slie  reconciled  until  the  baptism  of  her  sec- 
ond child,  on  which  occasion  she  stood  sponsor  for  it, 
and  presented  Metcalf  with  his  wife's  fortune.  It 
now  became  a  matter  of  wonder  that  she  should  have 
preferred  a  blind  man  to  Dickenson,  she  being  as 
handsome  a  woman  as  any  in  the  country.  A  lady 
having  asked  her  why  she  refused  so  many  good  oflers 
for  Blind  Jack,  she  answered,  "  Because  I  could  not 
be  happy  without  him."  And  being  more  particu- 
larly questioned,  she  replied,  "  His  actions  are  so 
singular,  and  his  spirit  so  manly  and  enterprising, 
that  I  could  not  help  liking  him." 


ACHIEVEMENTS  OF  THE  BLIND  IN  POETRY  AND 
MUSIC. 

SERIES  m.— SECTION  I. 

80MK  EXPLANATION  OF  THE  METHOD  BY  WHICH  THE  BORN  BLIND 
GAIN  A  KNOWLEDGE  OF  THE  EXTENSION,  MAGNITUDE  AND  AP 
PKARANCE  OF  DISTANT  OBJECTS. 

It  is  not  difficult  to  understand  how  it  is  that  the 
obstacles  which  imperfect  sight  throws  in  the  way  of 
blacksmithing,  painting,  or  anatomical  investigations, 
are  no  impediments  to  the  study  of  music,  or  even  to 
very  superior  attainments  in  it,  both  as  an  art  and  a 
science.  But  we  confess  it  is  not  so  easy  to  perceive 
how  it  happens  that  some  persons,  denied  the  bless- 
ings of  sight  from  birth,  can  describe  scenes  so  graph- 
ically that  even  a  connoisseur  of  natural  scenery  could 
not  detect  their  condition  ;  or  how,  indeed,  they  can 
form  any  notion  of  objects  as  they  must  appear  to  the 
eye  from  a  distance,  of  the  nature  of  light  itself,  of 
the  indescribable  glory  of  the  sun,  moon,  and  stars, 
and  much  less  of  those  peculiarly  pleasurable  sensa 
tions  which  the  blending  of  light  and  shade,  and  con- 
trast of  colors  produce. 

It  is  not  wonderful  that  those  who  regard  sight  as 
the  grand  avenue  to  the  mind,  and  who  through  thia 


THETR    ACHIKVEMENTS.  281 

entrance  receive  most  of  their  impressions  IVoin  with- 
out, are  slow  to  believe  that  so  many  fields  of  enter- 
prise, ancl  rich  subjects  for  contemplation,  are  open 
to  the  blind.  How,  say  they,  can  one  whose  ideas 
of  extent  and  superficial  area  can  be  gathered  only 
from  the  distance  within  his  reach,  or  the  space  of 
ground  over  which  he  may  have  traveled,  form  any 
Adequate  conception  of  the  magnitude  of  a  mountain, 
or  picture  to  himself  a  vast  landscape,  diversified  with 
groves,  meadows,  sunny  hill-sides,  winding'  streams, 
with  plains  and  grazing  flocks,  and  here  and  there 
isolated  trees,  at  distinct  though  irregular  distances 
from  each  other  ?  That  the  born  blind  do  possess  this 
imaginative  power,  and  even  tlie  ability  to  form  new 
combinations  from  isolated  ideas,  is  clearly  shown 
in  their  writings. 

The  following  descriptive  lines  gathered  from  the 
poems  of  Blacklock,  by  Spence,  his  critical  reviewer, 
mav  serve  to  demonstrate  this  fact : 

"  Mild  gleams  the  purple  evening  o'er  the  plaiu." 

"Ye  vales,  which  to  the  raptured  eye. 

Disclosed  the  flowery  pride  of  May  ; 
Ye  circling  hills,  whose  summits  high,  . 

Blushed  with  the  morning's  earliest  ray." 

"  Let  long-lived  pansies  here  their  scents  bestow. 
The  violets  languish  and  the  roses  glow  ; 
In  yellow  glory  let  the  crocus  shine — 
Narcissus  here  his  love-sick  head  recline  ; 
Here  liyaointhsii  in  purple  sweetness  rise. 
And  tulips  tinged  wjtli  beauty's  fairest  <lye«." 


28'2  BKAU'nK»   OF   THE   BLIND. 

"On  rising  ground,  the  prospect  to  command, 

Untinged  witli  smoke,  where  vernal  breezes  Wow, 

In  rural  neatness  let  thy  cottage  stand ; 
Here  wave  a  wood,  and  there  a  river  flow." 

"Oft  on  the  glassy  stream,  with  raptured  eyes, 
Surveys  her  form  in  mimic  sweetness  rise  ; 
Oft  as  the  waters,  pleased,  reflect  her  face. 
Adjusts  her  locks,  and  heightens  every  grace." 

"Oft  while  the  sun 
Darts  boundless  glory  through  the  expanse  of  heaven, 
A  gloom  of  congregated  vapors  rise  ; 
Tlian  night  more  dieadful  in  his  blackest  shroul, 
And  o'er  the  face  of  things  incumbent  hang. 
Portending  tempest;  till  the  source  of  day 
Again  asserts  the  empire  of  the  sky. 
And  o'er  the  blotted  scene  of  nature  throws 
A  keener  splendor." 

Tlie  idiosyncrasies  of  the  blind,  or  those  traits  of 
tlie  mind  which  the  want  of  sight  from  birth  has 
nniformlj  developed,  have  long  furnished  the  seeins; 
with  curious  subjects  of  metaphysical  speculation. 
Many  strange  conjectures  have  been  hazarded,  and 
some  very  happ}'^  conclusions  arrived  at ;  but  as  yet, 
we  think  they  have  not  received  sufficient  attention 
from  the  blind  themselves.  In  view  of  this  fact,  we 
have  ventured  to  offer,  in  this  connection,  a  few  re- 
marks, as  the  result  of  our  united  experience.  Not 
that  we  fancy  ourselves  equal  to  the  task  of  explain- 
ing to  the  seeing  what,  to  ourselves,  is  mysterious, 
but  we  are  persuaded  that  many  of  the  manifesta- 
tions of  mind  that  seem  peculiar  only  to  our  class 
may  be  accounted  for,  on  as  strictly  philosophica 


THKTR    ACHIEVKMKNT8.  283 

prii.oiples  as  though  the}^  liad  been  developed  by  a 
tuU  use  of  all  tiie  senses. 

Our  first  inquiry  is,  then,  by  what  means  are  those 
iacuities  of  the  mind  which  perceive  physical  objects, 
and  contemplate  and  retain  facts  concerning  them, 
developed  ?  We  answer,  by  the  very  impression  which 
those  objects  produce  upon  the  mind  through  the 
external  senses.  The  con  version  of  these  impressions 
or  shadows  of  the  external  world,  into  its  own  nature, 
not  only  affords  it  healthful  exercise,  but  increases  its 
capacity  for  the  reception  of  facts.  Knowledge  is  its 
aliment ;  and  the  senses  are  so  many  mouths  through 
which  it  receives  its  food.  But,  it  may  be  asked, 
what  if  sight,  that  medium  through  which  the  mind 
can  take  cognizance  of  so  large  a  field  of  objects  at 
the  same  time,  be  obstructed  from  birth  ;  will  not  the 
powei-s  of  the  mind  lie  dormant  ?  Certainly  not,  for 
every  essential  fact  relative  to  the  nature  or  proper- 
ties of  outward  objects,  would  reach  the  mind  through 
the  other  senses  or  channels  of  communication,  al- 
though they  might  not  come  robed  in  such  gorgeous 
colors.  A  pill  may  possess  medicitial  properties, 
whether  it  is  sugared  or  not.  Delicious  frnits  are  as 
jnviting  to  the  blind  man's  taste,  as  gratifying  to  his 
appetite,  and  quite*  as  salutary  in  their  effect  upon 
the  system,  as  though  he  could  behold  the  bright, 
rich  colors  with  which  nature  has  painted  them. 

Color,  it  should  be  remembered,  is  nature's  dress, 
and  not  nature's  self.  No  one  will  contend  that 
oeautiful  colors  are  essential  to  the  existence  of  bod 


284  BEAUTIES   OF  THE   BLIND. 

ies.  Correct  ideas  of  every  terrestrial  object  might 
have  been  presented  to  the  mind  without  them.  To 
illustrate  this  more  clearly  :  a  certain  quantity  of  nu- 
tritious food  is  requisite  to  the  support  of  our  animal 
nature.  Now,  this  aliment  may  be  introduced  di- 
rectly into  the  stomach  without  the  ordinary  process 
of  mastication,  and  produce  the  same  salutary  effect. 
Indeed,  all  food  might  be  prepared  for  the  immedi- 
ate action  of  this  organ,  by  artificial  means.  But, 
in  order  to  afford  us  greater  enjoyments  than  those 
of  simply  answering  nature's  demand,  the  God  of  na- 
ture has  given  us  the  sense  of  taste.  Yet,  had  he 
denied  us  this  source  of  pleasure,  we  can  conceive 
how  life  might  have  been  perpetuated,  and  all  the 
physical  powers  naturally  developed. 

"We  come  now  briefly  to  notice  the  superior  advan- 
tages which  some  of  the  senses  possess  over  sight, 
the  degree  of  cultivation  of  which  they  are  suscepti- 
ble, and  the  manner  in  which  they  can  be  made  to 
perform  nearly  all  the  functions  of  the  visual  organ. 
This  is  a  large  subject,  and  so  thickly  enveloped  in 
the  mist  of  metaphysical  science,  that  scarce  a  ray 
from  our  feeble  light  can  be  expected  to  reach  it. 
But  darkness  to  the  blind  has  no  terrors.  In  the  first 
place,  then,  we  remark  that,  to  the  eye  alone,  the 
common  properties  of  bodies,  namely,  hardness,  den- 
sity, elasticity,  etc.,  are  not  cognizable.  To  the  sense 
of  touch,  only,  are  they  appreciable.  For  example  : 
Glass  is  a  hard,  dense  and  brittle  body,  but  indepen- 
dent of  the  sense  of  touch,  the  eye  could  never  have 


THEIR   ACHIEVEMENTS.  28."^ 

perceived  this  fact.  Indeed,  our  knowledge  of  the 
physical  world  must  have  been  very  limited  and  su- 
})erficial,  had  tlie  Creator  endowed  us  with  no  other 
organ  of  sense  than  this.  Shadows  would  have  been 
thought  as  real  as  the  objects  by  which  they  were 
cast.  Images  reflected  from  polished  surfaces,  would 
have  lived  and  moved,  and  in  short,  life  would  have 
been  even  less  than  a  shadowy  dream,  a  beautiful 
panorama,  with  neither  soul  nor  substance. 

Of  all  the  senses,  that  of  sight  is  the  most  liable  to 
delusive  impressions.  Ocular  illusions  are  common, 
but  who  ever  heard  of  a  tactual  illusion.  Spectres, 
hobgoblins,  and  every  chimera  of  the  imagination 
of  which  it  is  possible  to  conceive,  have  frightened 
and  deceived  the  timid,  in  every  age  of  the  world. 
But  who  was  ever  terrified  at  the  sudden  appear 
ance  of  a  tangible  ghost  ?  An  untutored  infant  reaches 
after  its  toy,  while  the  object  desired  is,  perhaps, 
some  feet  from  it.  It  grasps  at  a  sunbeam,  or  its  own 
image  in  a  mirror,  and  cries  with  vexation  and  dis- 
appointment because  it  cannot  possess  itself  of  the 
beautiful  objects.  We  confess  it  might  be  difficult 
to  determine  whether  these  deceptive  appearances 
are  attributable  to  the  infant's  undisciplined  vision, 
or  to  the  undeveloped  state  of  its  mental  percejj- 
tions,  were  it  not  that  numerous  instances  are  re- 
corded of  persons  having  been  restored  to  sight,  at  a 
mature  age,  who  had  lost  all  recollection  of  objects 
ab  they  appear  to  the  eye.  To  several  of  these  per- 
sons, all  objects  at  first  appeared  at  a  uuitorm  dis- 


286  OF  THE    BLIND. 

tance  fr-  ra  the  eye.  although  differing  greatly  in  form 
and  magnitude.  But  what  is  most  surprising,  they 
were  wholly  unable  to  recognize  familiar  objects, 
until  they  had  fir^t  been  suJt)niitted  to  the  sense  of 
t(;'Uch,  when  the  eye  immediately  became  satisfied 
as  to  their  identity.  Hence,  we  are  led  to  infer  that 
to  the  child,  all  bodies  at  first  ajjpear  at  a  unifonr 
distance,  and  perhaps  inverted,  br  t  that  this  delusion 
vanishes  when  it  comes  to  examine  them  by  the  sense 
of  touch  ;  that  it  learns  to  calculate  relative  distance 
by  comparative  magnitude  ;  that  there  is  nothing  in 
the  nature  of  reflected  light,  or  in  the  images  which 
it  forms  upon  the  retina,  by  which  the  mind  can  de- 
termine absolute  distance  or  magnitude ;  and  that 
these  facts,  like  most  others,  can  only  be  reached 
through  the  eflSicient  aid  of  the  other  organs  of  sense. 

But  how,  then,  it  may  be  asked,  does  the  blind 
child,  whose  means  of  perception  do  not  seem  to  ex- 
tend much  beyond  the  reach  of  his  arms,  gain  any 
adequate  idea  of  figure,  extent,  elevation  or  magni- 
tude ?  By  modes,  of  course,  somewhat  differing  from 
those  used  by  the  seeing,  yet  always  productive  of 
the  same  results.  But,  as  these  modes  may  not,  at 
first,  appear  to  the  reader,  we  shall  notice  a  few  of 
them,  as  the  result  of  the  experience  of  one  of  the 
present  writers,  who,  it  will  be  remembered,  has  been 
deprived  of  sight  from  birth  : 

I  fancy  that  the  entire  form  or  contour  of  bodies, 
may  be  discovered  by  the  eye  at  a  single  glance,  by 
the  contrast  of  light  and  shade,  or  in  other  words 


THEIB  achievemb:nt8.  287 

by  contrasting  their  particular  colors,  with  the  light 
medium  which  surrounds  them.  But  by  the  sense 
of  touch,  shape  is  more  gradually  communicated. 
For  instance  :  A  large  body  is  presented  to  me.  By 
passing  my  fingers  over  its  several  parts,  retaining 
in  memory  a  complete  idea  of  each,  as  they  are  pre- 
sented to  the  mind  by  the  sense  of  touch,  until  the 
entire  surface  has  been  carefully  examined,  the  ima- 
gination at  once  combines  each  ideal  prf)j)ortion,  and 
presents  to  my  view  a  perfect  image  of  the  object. 
Not  by  contrast  of  color,  since  this  property  of  bod- 
ies, it  will  be  remembered,  is  never  perceptible  to 
the  touch.  But  by  contrasting,  in  memory,  the  den- 
sity of  the  object  with  the  rare  medium  or  space 
which  surrounds  it.  In  this  way,  I  can  picture  to 
myself  without  color,  (if  I  choose,)  groups  of  distinct 
objects  of  various  shapes,  with  smooth  or  rough  sur- 
faces, in  motion  or  at  rest,  and  can  change  their  re- 
lation to  each  other  at  will,  both  in  position  and  dis- 
tance. 

Of  course,  it  will  not  be  expected  that,  at  this  pe- 
riod of  life,  I  retain  any  distinct  recollections  of  the 
first  impressions  which  tangible  objects  produced 
upon  my  mind.  I  suppose,  however,  their  peculiar 
forms  and  diversified  surfaces  afforded  mo  sources  of 
o-reat  amusement,  and,  perhaps,  created  quite  us 
many  pleasurable  sensations,  as  the  same  variety  of 
bright  and  beautiful  colors  would  have  done.  And 
even  at  the  present  time,  I  take  a  strange  and  inde- 
scribable deli^clit  in  passing  my  hands  gently  ovei 


288  BEAUTIES   OF  THE   BLIND. 

highly  polished  surfaces,  especially  if  they  are  curved 
or  undulating.  Hard,  rougli  surfaces,  like  those  of 
6Hnd-paper  and  unpolished  metal,  are  extremely 
disagreeable  to  the  touch.  Angular  figures,  with 
fuzzy,  glutinous,  or  adhesive  surfaces,  excite  in  tlie 
blind  feelings  of  disgust,  kindred,  perliaps,  to  those 
experienced  by  the  seeing,  when  the  eye  falls  upon 
grim  and  dingy  colored  objects  ;  while  spherical  bod- 
ies^ with  sol^,  smooth,  or  glossy  exteriors,  never  fail 
to  create  the  most  pleasing  sensations  and  impart 
idsas  of  fascinating  beauty.  Consequently,  with  these 
qualities,  and  sweet  sounds,  we  associate  our  concep- 
tions of  beautiful  colors. 

"To  tliose  who  see,"  says  ^  distinguished  writer, 
"  a  scarlet  color  signifies  an  unknown  quality  in  bod- 
ies, that  makes  "to  the  eye  the  apjjearance  with  which 
we  are  well  acquainted.  The  blind  man  has  not  this 
appearance  as  the  sign  of  that  particular  quality  in 
bodies  ;  but  he  can  conceive  the  eye  to  be  variously 
atfected  by  different  colors,  as  the  nose  is  by  diflerent 
smells,  or  the  ear  by  dififerent  sounds.  Thus  he  can 
conceive  scarlet  to  be  difi:'erent  from  blue,  as  the 
sound  of  a  trumpet  is  diflerent  from  that  of  a  drum : 
or  as  the  smell  of  an  orange  is  from  that  of  an  apple.'' 
As  regards  our  mode  of  inferring  how  diflerent  colors 
must  appear  to  tlie  eye,  the  writer  is  essentially  cor- 
rect. We  do,  indeed,  fancy  a  sort  of  analogy  to  exist 
between  the  sensations  which  light  and  color  produce 
upon  the  eye,  and  those  which  sounds  produce  upon 
the  ear.     With  almost  every  property  of  bodies  that 


TflEm   ACHIEVEMENTS.  280 

may  address  Itself  to  our  hearing,  smelling,  taste,  etc., 
we  associate,  as  we  have  before  remarked,  some  ideal 
quality  of  color.  But  what  is  most  singular,  these 
qualities  seem  to  have  a  separate  existence  in  the 
imagination,  and  may  be  formed  by  fancy  into  new 
and  various  combinations,  as  may  be  seen  in  the 
highly  colored  lines  above  quoted. 

Much  more  might  yet  be  said  in  explanation  of  the 
methods  by  which  we  are  enabled  to  gain  a  knowl- 
edge of  extent  by  the  effect  of  distant  sounds  upon 
the  ear,  and  of  height  and  magnitude,  by  multiply- 
ing many  times  in  imagination,  the  size  and  elevation 
of  bodies  commensurate  with  our  means  of  percep- 
tion. But  as  we  have  nearly  exhausted  the  space 
allotted  to  us  in  this  section,  and  perhaps  the  pa- 
tience of  the  reader,  we  shall  proceed  briefly  to  nc 
tice,  in  conclusion,  a  few  more  favorites  of  the  muses. 
The  most  ancient  of  these,  and  perhaps  the  first  in 
merit,  is  Heney  the  Minstrel,  more  commonly  called 
Blind  Harry.  This  poet  was  born  in  1361,  and  lost 
Iiis  sight  in  infancy.  He  was  the  author  of  a  histor- 
ical poem,  in  ten  books,  narrating  the  achievements 
of  Sir  William  Wallace.  This  poem  continued  for 
several  centuries,  to  be  in  great  repute,  but  after- 
wards sunk  into  neglect,  until  very  lately,  when  it 
was  recovered  from  obscurity,  and  a  very  neat  and 
correct  edition  was  published  at  Perth,  under  the 
mspection  and  patronage  of  the  Earl  of  Buchan.  As 
an  example  of  the  author's  style,  we  subjoin  the  fol- 
lowing, which  is,  perhaps,  one  of  the  most  lively,  and 


290  BEAUTIES   OF  THE   BUND. 

animated  descriptions  in  the  whole  poem.  It  is  fre- 
quently remarked  that  those  who  have  nevei  seen, 
should  not  attempt  descriptive  verse.  .  If  facts  can 
reach  the  mind  by  no  other  entrance  than  tli3  eye, 
and  if  color  is  the  only  stuff  out  of  which  poets' 
dreams  are  made,  then,  perhaps,  it  may  be  tri/3  that 
the  blind  can  neither  feel  deeply  nor  describe  natu- 
rally. But  whether  our  author  succeeds  in  f  iving 
this  scene  its  true  coloring  or  not,  we  leave  oui  rt  ad 
ere  to  judge : 

Now  Bigger's  plains  with  armed  men  are  crown' d, 
And  shining  lances  glitter  aU  around  ; 
The  sounding  horn  and  clarion  all  conspire 
To  raise  the  soldier's  breast,  and  kindle  up  his  fira 
So  Triton,  when,  at  Neptune's  high  command. 
He  heaves  the  swelling  surge  above  the  land; 
When  with  full  breath,  he  bids  the  tempest  roar, 
And  dash  the  sounding  billows  to  the  shore  ; 
His  angry  waves  the  wrinkled  seas  deform. 
They  rise,  they  rave,  and  blacken  to  the  storm, 
Each  eager  soldier  seized  his  ready  shield. 
Drew  the  fierce  blade  and  strode  along  the  field; 
The  black'ning  wings  extend  from  left  to  right, 
Condense  the  war  and  gather' to  the  fight! 
Now  rose  the  battle, — there  the  warriors  tend, 
A  thousand  deaths  on  thousand  wings  ascend ; 
Swords,  spears  and  shields,  in  mixed  confusion  glow 
The  field  is  swept,  and  lessens  at  each  blow. 
Wallace's  helm,  distinguished  from  afar. 
Tempests  the  field,  and  fioats  amid  the  war  ; 
Imperious  death  attends  upon  the  sword. 
And  certain  conquest  waits  her  destined  lord ! 
Wallace  beheld  his  fainting  squadron  yield. 
And  various  slaughter  spread  along  the  field  ; 
Furious  he  hastes  and  heaves  bis  orbid  shield. 


THEIB  AC'HIEViafrENTB.  391 

Resolved  in  arms  to  meet  his  enemy  ; 
Before  his  spear  they  run,  they  rush,  they  fly 
And  now  in  equal  battle  met  the  fffes, — 
Long  lasts  the  combat,  and  resound  their  blowi 
Their  dreadful  falchions  brandishing  on  high. 
In  wary  circles  heighten  to  the  sky. 
Now  all  is  death  and  wounds  ;  the  crimson  plain 
Floats  round  in  blood,  and  groans  beneath  its  slain  ; 
Promiscuous  crowds  one  common  ruin  share. 
And  death  alone  employs  the  wasteful  war; 
They  trembling  fly,  by  conquering  Scots  opprest, 
And  the  broad  ranks  of  battle  lie  defaced ; 
A  false  usurper  sinks  in  every  foe. 
And  liberty  returns  with  every  blow  I 


John  Gower,  another  ancient  poet,  who  flourished 
in  the  latter  part  of  the  fourteenth  century,  and  died 
in  1402,  deserves  a  place  in  this  series.  He  lost  hia 
sight,  it  appears,  at  an  advanced  period  in  life,  but 
from  what  cause  we  are  not  informed.  Some  have 
supposed  from  imbecility  of  age  ;  but  this  does  not 
appear  probable,  from  the  fact  that  after  his  misfor- 
tune he  wrote  several  of  his  best  Latin  and  English 
poems. 

There  is  nothing  more  certain  than  the  uncertainty 
of  human  events ;  nor  is  there  a  greater  disability 
than  human  inertness,  or  a  want  of  power  to  break 
away  from  the  sinking  wreck  of  condemned  projects, 
and  to  bear  up  manfully  against  the  tide  of  reverses 
and  disappointments,  until  a  foothold  can  be  gained 
on  safer  and  more  feasible  plans.  Failures  are  the 
creatures  of  error  and  mismanagement,  and  not  of  fa- 
tuitous  misfortune.    The  only  way  to  battle  success- 


292  BEAUTIES  OP  THE  BUND. 

fully  with  natural  difficulties,  is  to  meet  the  ills  of 
life  with  fortitudg,  and  if  obliged  to  yield  a  desired 
point,  to  rally  all  the  energies  in  another  quarter  of 
the  field.  Nor  is  triumph  over  difficulty  the  only 
achievement ;  the  true  moral  hero  is  able  to  endure  as 
well  as  contend. 

Another  encouraging  example  of  the  power  of  re- 
solve over  physical  circumstances,  is  exhibited  in  the 
life  of  Dr.  M.  Clancy,  a  dramatic  poet,  who  flour- 
ished in  the  beginning  of  the  eighteenth  century. 
He  was  born  in  the  county  of  Clare,  Ireland,  and  was 
deprived  of  sight  in  1737,  by  a  severe  cold,  and  was 
thus  rendered  incapable  of  following  his  profession  aa 
a  physician.  As  the  doctor  in  his  earlier  days  had 
evinced  a  fondness  for  scribbling  verse,  he  was  ad- 
vised by  some  friends  to  try  his  success  as  an  author, 
and  supposing  the  theater  was  open  alike  to  all,  his 
first  attempt  was  in  the  dramatic  line.  His  first 
piece  was  a  comedy,  called  the  "Sliarper,"  wliich 
was  acted  five  times  at  the  theater  in  Smock-alley, 
Dublin,  and  obtained  for  him  the  notice  of  Dean 
Swift.  Tlie  dean  having  critically  read  a  copy  of  this 
play,  which  had  been  secretly  placed  upon  his  table, 
was  so  highly  pleased  with  it  that,  on  learning  the 
circumstances  of  its  author,  he  immediately  dis- 
patched the  following : 

"To  De.  Clancy: 

"/StV, — Some  friend  of  mine  lent  me  a  comedy, 
which,  I  was  told,  was  written  by  you      I  read  it 


THKIB   AGHTEVEMENTS.  298 

carefully  and  with  much  pleasure,  on  account  both 
of  the  characters  and  the  moral.  I  have  no  Interest 
with  the  people  of  the  play-house,  else  I  would  gladly 
recommend  it  to  them.  I  send  you  a  small  present, 
in  such  gold  as  will  not  give  you  trouble  to  change, 
for  I  much  pity  your  loss  of  sight,  which,  if  it  had 
pleased  God  to  let  you  enjoy,  your  other  talents  might 
have  been  your  honest  support,  and  had  eased  you 
of  your  present  confinement. 

"  I  am,  sir,  your  well-wishing  friend, 

"  and  humble  servant, 

"Jonathan  Swifi 
"Deanery  House,  Christmasday,  1737." 

In  the  year  1746,  he  received  a  sum  of  money  foi 
performing  the  part  of  Tiresias,  the  blind  prophet,  in 
"  CEdipus,"  which  was  acted  for  his  benefit  at  Drury 
Lane  theater.  He  afterward  settled  at  Kilkenny, 
where  he  was  for  some  time  connected  with  a  Latin 
school.  Clancy  was  tiie  autlior  of  three  dramatic 
pieces,  and  also  of  a  Latin  poem,  called  "  Teraplum 
Veneris,  sive  Amorum  Rhapsodiae."  From  the  follow- 
ing fragment,  found  among  the  papers  of  Mrs.  Pil- 
kington,  we  conclude  the  stream  which  most  embit- 
tered our  author's  life  did  not  spring  from  want  of 
sight,  but  from  the  climax  of  domestic  misery  —  a 
scolding  wife. 

"  Hapless  Clancy  I  grieve  no  more, 
Socrates  was  plagued  before  ; 
Though  o'ercast,  thy  visual  ray 
Meeis  no  more  the  light  of  day. 


194  BEAUTIES  OF  THE   BLIND. 

Yet  even  here  is  comfort  had. 

Good  prevailing  over  bad. 

Now  thou  canst  no  more  behold 

The  grim  aspect  of  thy  scold; 

Oh !  what  raptures  wouhlst  thou  find, 

Wert  thou  deaf  as  well  as  blind." 

A  German,  named  John  Pheffel,  a  native  of  Col- 
mar,  who  lost  his  sight  in  youth,  wrote  several  vol- 
umes of  poetry,  consisting  chiefly  of  fables,  which 
were  published  in  1791.  He  also  established  in  his 
native  town  a  military  school,  to  which  youths  of  the 
best  families  in  Germany  were  sent  to  be  educated. 
He  died  in  1809,  in  the  seventy-third  year  of  his  age. 

Miss  Anna  Williams,  who  came  to  London  in  1730, 
with  her  father,  a  Welch  surgeon,  lost  her  sight  from 
cataract,  in  the  thirty-fourth  year  of  her  age.  This 
disheartening  calamity  did  not  strip  life  of  all  its  at- 
tractions, nor  crush  every  hope  of  future  usefulness, 
but  seemed  rather  to  give  new  zest  to  intellectual 
pursuits.  Her  world  was  now  one  of  thought,  and 
every  bright  creation  of  fancy  seemed  more  glorious 
in  contrast  with  the  dark  world  without.  In  1746, 
after  six  years  of  blindness,  she  published  a  transla- 
tion from  the  French  of  Le  Bleterie's  "  Life  of  the 
Emperor  Julian,"  and  twenty  years  after  she  appeared 
again  as  an  authoress,  of  a  volume  entitled,  "Miscel- 
lanies in  Prose  and  Verse."  Her  fine  literary  attain- 
ments recommended  her  to  the  notice  of  Dr.  Johnson, 
in  whose  house  she  lived  for  several  yeare,  and  died 
m  1783,  at  the  age  of  seventy-seven. 
.    We  have  also  before  us  a  miscellaneous  collection 


THBIB   ACHIEVEMENTS.  396 

of  pi  use  and  verse,  yet  in  manuscript,  from  the  pen 
of  O.  Hewitt,  late  deceased,  who  was  an  intimate 
friend  and  classmate  of  the  present  writers. 

*  We  thank  thee,  Lord,  that  in  each  stricken  heart» 
The  radiant  star  of  hope  doth  brightly  shine ; 
And  while  we  weep  that  thus  we  early  part^ 
We  bless  the  chast'ning  hand,  for  it  is  thine; 
We  know  thy  mercy,  Lord — thy  righteous  ways, 
And  while  we  mourn,  we  praise." 

Hewitt  was  born  1827,  in  Tioga  county,  New  York, 
and  lost  his  sight  in  infancy.  He  entered  the  Insti- 
tution for  the  Blind  at  New  York  in  1839,  and,  after 
a  term  of  six  years,  graduated  with  the  highest  hon- 
ors of  that  institute.  He  died,  from  pulmonary  con- 
sumption, June  10th,  1852,  in  the  twenty-fifth  year 
of  his  age.  We  cannot  but  feel  a  deep  regret  for  his 
early  death,  in  common  with  the  numerous  and  ad- 
miring friends  which  his  kindness,  generosity,  and 
promising  genius  hud  endeared  to  him.  But  from 
the  deep  rooted  and  unaffected  piety  that  character- 
ized his  life,  we  are  encouraged  to  hope  that  his  Im- 
mortal spirit  has  winged  its  flight  to  realms  of  mi- 
clouded  day.  "  And  there  shall  be  no  night  there  ; 
and  they  need  no  candle,  neither  light  of  the  sun ; . 
for  the  Lord  God  giveth  them  light :  and  they  shall 
reign  for  ever  and  ever."  His  manuscripts,  from 
which  we  subjoin  the  following  short  poem,  as  a  spe- 
cimen of  the  author's  style,  have  fallen  into  the  hands 
of  a  relative,  who  appreciates  the  »•  value,  and  they 
will,  it  is  hoped,  ere  long  find  thei    '"ay  t  o  the  pres*. 


296  BKAUTIE8   OF  THE   BLIND. 


REFLECTIONS  ON  VISITING  THE  RESIDENCE  OF  A 
DECEASED  FRIENR 

I  entered  tnat  lone  dwelling,  all  was  still ; 

No  sound  of  joy  or  mirth  was  heard  along 

Those  now  deserted  halls,  but  silence  deep 

Reigned  there,  in  all  its  solera  ity. 

But  each  familiar  thing,  so  dear  to  me 

In  other  days,  remains  unchanged  by  time  ; 

Like  living  sentinels  they  ever  stand 

To  speak  to  me  of  the  departed  dead. 

But  wh'Cre  is  she,  whoje  tones  of  gladness  oft 

Echoed  so  joyously  through  these  lone  walls  I 

Gone,  never  to  return,  or  cheer  again 

The  hearts  that  sigh  in  vain  for  scenes  longflei 

And  must  it  be,  that  other  feet  shall  tread 

The  spot  still  sacred  to  her  memory  t 

Be,  as  she  oft  has  been,  the  pride  and  joy 

Of  those  that  gather  round  the  social  board? 

No,  though  ye  revel  still  in  smiles,  and  though 

In  mirth  and  joy  the  livelong  night  may  pass. 

Sad  thoughts  of  other  days  will  sometimes  come» 

To  east  a  shadow  o'er  your  brightest  joys. 

Tis  strange,  though  true,  those  we  have  held  mostdeitf 

Wither  an^  die,  touched  by  tlie  icy  hand 

Of  dv.    'h  ;  and  o'er  their  slow  but  sure  decay 

Grieve  is  if  all  that  we  most  prize  on  eartn 

With  tiiat  loved  form  had  perished  in  an  hour: 

And  yet,  we  soon  forget  that  they  have  been. 

Forget  that  they  to  us  were  ever  dear  ; 

That  yesterday  they  mingled  in  the  dance. 

To-day  are  slumbering  cold  in  death's  embrace. 

Again  I  entered  that  once  loved  abode  ; 

But  other  forms  and  other  scenes  were  there, 

And  I,  of  all  tliat  vast  assembled  crowd. 

Am  now  a  stranger  where  was  once  my  home. 

Oh,  it  is  sad,  that  time  should  ever  bring 

Such  fearful  changes  to  so  fair  a  spot — 


THEIR    ACHmVKMKNTS.  297 

Tliat  one  who  once  was  gladly  welcomed  there 
Should  stand  alone  by  all  forgotten  now. 
But  I  can  bear  it,  though  the  sacred  past 
Be  full  of  sadness — ^yet  'tis  sweet  to  know 
That  those  I  loved  have  slumbered  in  the  grave, 
And  buried  friendship  in  oblivion  deep. 
Ere  yet  its  holy  flame  had  ceased  to  burn 
Or  dimmed  its  brightness  by  the  flight  of  years. 

In  arranging  these  characters,  we  have  usually 
treated  them  in  order  of  time  ;  but  after  the  comple- 
tion of  this  article,  we  found,  on  looking  over  our  list 
of  authors,  that  we  had  omitted  the  name  of  Edward 
RusHTON,  whose  abilities  as  a  writer  justlj  entitle 
him  to  a  place  among  the  poets,  as  the  extract  sub- 
joined will  show. 

He  was  a  native  of  Liverpool,  and  lost  his  sight  in 
1774,  in  his  nineteenth  year,  while  on  a  slaving  voy 
age  to  the  coast  of  Africa.  It  is,  however,  due  to  his 
memory  to  record,  that  when  he  beheld  the  horrors 
of  this  disgraceful  traffic,  he  expressed  his  sentiments 
in  very  strong  and  pointed  language,  with  the  bold- 
ness and  integrity  which  characterized  his  every  ac- 
tion ;  and  though  in  a  subordinate 'situation,  he  went 
80  far  that  it  was  thought  necessary  to  threaten  him 
with  the  irons  if  he  did  not  desist. 

The  first  occupation  worthy  of  note  in  which  he  en- 
gaged after  his  return  to  England,  was  the  editing  of 
a  newspaper  called  the  "  Herald."  But  finding  his 
views  too  liberal  and  magnanimous  for  the  times,  and 
the  engagement  not  very  lucrative,  he  exchanged  it 
for  that  of  a  bookseller,  a  branch  of  business  more 


298  BEAUTIES  OF  THE  BLIND. 

coiigen  al  with  his  habits  and  taste  than  any  other 
that  presented  itself.  A  few  years  subsequent  to  the 
loss  of  his  sight,  he  had  married,  and  now  his  capital 
consisted  of  a  wife,  five  children,  and  thirty  guineas. 
But  by  incessant  toil  and  frugal  management,  he  soon 
rendered  his  circumstances  more  easy,  and  found 
time  to  indulge  his  fondness  for  reading,  and  to  exer- 
cise his  talents  in  composition.  With  the  exception 
of  two  letters  on  the  subject  of  negro  slavery,  one  ad- 
dressed to  President  "Washington,  and  the  oth^sr  to 
Thomas  Paine,  his  productions  are  all  in  verse.  As 
a  poet,  he  seems  to  have  possessed  considerable  merit- 
Throughout  all  his  writings  the  reader  is  charmed 
with  the  display  of  rich  and  glowing  iraaginafion, 
and  a  lively  conception  of  the  beautiful.  His  poems, 
which  first  appeared  in  the  periodicals  of  the  day, 
were  afterwards  collected  by  his  friends,  and  p'>m- 
piled  in  one  volume,  at  London,  in  1814. 


FROM  HIS  LASS  OF  LIVERPOOL. 

Where  cocoas  lift  their  tufted  heads, 

And  orange  blossoms  scent  the  breeze, 
Her  charms  the  wild  mulatto  spreads, 

And  moves  with  soft  and  wanton  ease. 
And  I  have  seen  her  witching  wiles. 

And  I  have  kept  my  bosom  cool, 
For  how  could  I  forget  thy  smiles, 

Oh  lovely  lass  of  Liverpool  f 


THEIB   ACHIETEMENT8.  999 

The  softest  tints  tho  conch  displays,  ' 

The  cheek  of  her  I  love  outvies ; 
And  the  sea  breeze  midst  burning  rays, 

Is  not  more  cheering  than  her  eyes. 
Dark  as  the  petrel  is  Ber  hair, 

And  Sam,  who  calls  me  love-sick  fool, 
Ne'er  saw  a  tropic  bird  more  fair 

Than  m^  sweet  lass  of  Liverpool 


SECTION  a 

BLIND   MIJSICIAN8. 

There  is  a  world  to  which  night  brings  no  gloom, 
no  sadness,  no  impediments  ;  fills  no  yawning  chasm, 
and  hides  from  the  traveler  no  pitfall.  It  is  the  world 
of  sound.  Silence  is  its  night,  the  only  darkness  of 
which  the  blind  have  any  knowledge.  In  it  every 
attribute  of  nature  has  a  voice ;  the  beautiful,  the 
grand,  the  sublime,  have  each  a  language,  and  to  one 
whose  heart  is  in  tune,  every  sound  has  a  peculiar  sig- 
nificance. In  the  voice  of  the  flood,  the  thunder  and 
the  earthquake.  Omnipotence  is  heard,  and  deeper 
and  stronger  emotions  seem  to  agitate  the  feelings, 
than  those  which  are  awakened  by  the  appearance 
of  the  dashing  water,  the  gathering  storm,  the  sweep- 
ing tempest,  or  the  lightning's  flash.  Sound  fills  the 
soul,  while  light  fills  the  eye  only.  The  brightest 
glance  that  morning  ever  threw  over  this  beautifu] 
earth,  was  but  a  reflected  beam  of  heaven's  ineffable 
glory ;  but  sound  is  a  living  echo  of  that  voice  that 


300  BEAt'TIES   OF  THE   BLIND. 

spakS  and  the  world  stood  fast,  that  commanded  and 
holy  stars  came  forth  from  the  depths  of  night.  "As 
the  visible  world,  with  all  its  pleasing  varieties  of 
form,  its  endless  combinations,  and  beautiful  blend- 
ings  of  light  and  shade,  is  to  the  soul  that  is  permit- 
ted to  look  out  upon  it,  and  feel  its  yefining,  nay,  its 
regenerating  influences,  so  is  the  world  of  sound  to 
him  who  is  denied  the  contemplation  of  these  beau- 
ties." "In  the  varied  stream  of  warbling  melody," 
as  it  winds  its  way  in  graceful  meanderings  to  the 
deep  recesses  of  his  soul,  "  or  of  rich  and  boundless 
harmony,  as  it  swells  and  rolls  its  pompous  tide 
around  him,"  he  finds  a  solace  and  a  compensation 
for  the  absent  joys  of  sight. 

Consequently,  the  educated  blind  musician  be- 
comes enthusiastic  in  his  admiration  of  the  science 
and  art  of  music.  Secluded  ever  from  the  joys  of 
vision,  he  seeks  for  consolation  here.  Oft,  in  the 
pensive  musings  of  his  active  mind,  when  lonely  and 
retired,  he  contemplates  the  excellence  of  music,  and 
seeks  the  sources  of  its  powerful  charms.  He  runs 
through  the  nice  gradations  and  minute  divisions  of 
its  scale,  and  fancies  an  unlimited  extent,  in  gravity 
and  acuteness,  beyond  the  reach  of  all  perceptioij ; 
thence  he  traverses  the  rich  and  devious  maze  of 
combinations  which  result  from  harmony,  and  all  its 
complicated  evolutions — the  soft  and  loud,  the  min- 
gling light  and  shade  of  music — the  swelling  and  de- 
creasing tones,  which  form  the  aerial  tracery  and  fa- 
ding tints  of  just  perspective — all  are  to  liim  the 


THSIB  ACHIEVEMENTS.  301 

DOfly,  color,  strength  and  outline,  which  compose  the 
vivid  picture  his  imagination  has  created.  He  pon- 
ders next  upon  the  various  sounds  produced  in  na- 
ture, from  the  soft  and  balmy  whisper  of  the  vernal 
breeze  to  the  loud  pealingsof  the  deep-toned  thunder, 
heard  amid  the  wailings  of  the  fiercely  raging  storm. 
Lost  in  the  tumult  of  his  strong  emotions,  he  exclaims, 
"  What  is  there  in  the  wide  creation  so  sublime,  mag- 
nificent, or  beautiful,  as  sound  ?  " 

In  the  lives  of  those  eminent  blind,  who  have  in* 
different  ages  distinguished  themselves  in  the  science 
and  practice  of  music,  the  truth  and  justice  of  the 
foregoing  remarks  are  fully  exemplified.  Fkanciscus 
Salinas,  professor  of  music  at  the  University  of  Sal- 
amanca, and  created  Abbot  of  St.  Pauciato  della 
Rocca  Salignas,  in  the  kingdom  of  Naples,  by  Pope 
Paul  TV.,  was  one  of  the  most  remarkable  musical 
geniuses  of  which  any  age  can  boast.  He  was  the 
anthor  of  an  elaborate  treatise,  in  seven  books,  on  his 
favorite  science,  under  the  title  of  "De  Musica," 
which  held  a  preeminence  for  many  centuries,  and 
was,  perhaps,  one  of  the  most  profound  and  erudite 
works  ever  produced  on  this  subject,  in  any  language 
or  country.  Franciscus  Salinas  was  born  in  the  year 
1513.  His  blindness  from  birth  probably  early  lead 
him  to  the  study  of  music,  and  during  his  youih 
nearly  the  whole  of  his  time  was  employed  in  sing- 
ing and  playing  the  organ.  When  but  a  lad,  he  ac- 
quired a  knowledge  of  the  Latin  language,  from  a 
young  lady,  to  whom  he  gave  lessons  in  music  in  ro- 


802  BEAUTIES   OF  THE    LLIND. 

turn.  Encouraged  by  his  rapid  attainments,  his  pa- 
rents sent  him  to  the  University  of  Salamanca,  where 
he  applied  himself  assiduously  and  with  astonishing 
success  to  the  study  of  the  Greek  language,  philoso- 
phy and  the  arts.  After  leaving  the  university,  his 
genius  recommended  him  to  the  favorable  notice  of 
Archbishop  Compostella,  afterward  made  cardinal, 
whom  Salinas  accompanied  to  Rome,  where  he  spent 
thirty  years  in  studying  the  works  of  Boetias  and  the 
'writings  of  the  ancient  Greek  harmonicians.  He  af- 
terward returned  to  Spain,  where  he  was  invited  to 
the  professorship  of  music  in  his  own  university,  on 
a  liberal  salary.  He  died  in  1590,  at  the  advanced 
age  of  seventy -seven,  leaving  behind  him  many  ex- 
cellent musical  compositions,  together  with  the  valu- 
able productions  above  alluded  to. 

In  the  sixteenth  century,  when  the  tender  influence 
of  music  seemed  for  a  time  to  warm  into  action  the 
nobler  impulses  of  men's  natures,  and  to  cause  springs 
of  feeling  to  gush  anew  from  hearts  long  calloused 
with  vice  and  cruelty,  flourished  Caspar  Ckumbhokn, 
who  was  blind  from  the  third  year  of  his  age.  He 
composed  several  pieces  of  music  in  parts,  and  per- 
formed, with  such  superior  taste  and  skill,  on  both 
the  flute  and  violin,  that  he  won  the  favor  and  pat- 
ronage of  Augustus,  elector  of  Saxony.  But,  prefer- 
ring his  native  Silesia  to  every  other  country,  he  re- 
turned thither,  and  was  appointed  organist  of  the 
church  of  St.  Peter  and  St.  Paul,  in  the  city  of  Lig- 
nitz,  and  likewise  had  the  chief  direction  of  the  mu- 


THEEB    ACHLEVEMRNTS.  303 

*<cal  college  in  that  place.     He  died  there  on  tho 
71th  of  June,  1621. 

Cotemporaneous  with  Crumbhorn  lived  Martin 
Pesenti,  a  native  of  Venice,  who  was  blind  from 
birth.  He  was  a  distinguished  composer,  both  of 
vocal  and  instrumental  music. 

One  of  the  more  modern  musicians,  if  not  the  iirst 
among  the  blind  in  point  of  talent,  was  John  Stan- 
let,  the  celebrated  English  organist  and  composer. 
who  was  born  in  1713,  and  lost  his  sight  when  but 
two  years  of  age,  from  a  fall  on  a  marble  hearth.  In 
early  youth  his  friends  placed  him  under  a  musical 
master,  but  more  from  a  desire  to  amuse  him  than  a 
hope  of  his  excelling  in  the  art.  But  so  rapid  was 
his  progress,  that,  at  the  age  of  eleven,  he  obtained 
the  situation  of  organist  at  All-Hallows,  and  in  1726, 
at  the  age  of  thirteen,  was  elected  organist  of  St.  An- 
drew's, Holborn,  in  preference  to  a  great  number  of 
candidates.  In  1734  the  Benchers  of  the  Inner  Tem- 
ple elected  him  one  of  their  organists ;  and  the  last 
two  situations  he  retained  until  his  death.  Few  pro- 
fessors have  spent  a  more  active  life  in  every  branch 
of  their  art  than  this  extraordinary  musician ;  who 
was  not  only  a  most  neat,  pleasing,  and  accurate  per- 
former, but  an  agreeable  composer  and  successful 
teacher.  Besides  several  voluntaries  for  the  organ, 
he  was  the  author  of  two  oratorios — "  Jeptha,"  writ- 
ten in  1757,  and  "  Zimri,"  which  was  performed  at 
Covent  Garden,  during  the  first  season  of  Mr.  Stan- 
ley's management  of  the  oratorios  there.     He  al^M 


304  BEAUTIES    OF   THE    BLIND. 

composed  the  music  to  an  ode,  performed  at  Drury 
Lane,  and  set  music  to  a  dramatic  pastoral,  entitled 
"  Arcadia,  or  the  Shepherd's  Wedding,"  which  was 
played  at  the  same  theater.  After  the  death  of  the 
great  master,  Handel,  (who  was  himself  blind  for  sev- 
eral years  before  his  decease,)  Stanley,  in  conjunc- 
tion with  Smith,  undertook  the  management  of  the 
oratorios  during  Lent,  and  after  Mr.  Smith  retired, 
he  carried  them  on  in  connection  with  Mr.  Lindsley:, 
till  within  two  years  of  his  death,  which  took  place 
on  the  19th  of  May,  1786.  On  the  27th,  his  remains 
were  interred  in  the  new  burial-ground  of  St.  An- 
drew's, and  on  the  following  Sunday,  instead  of  the 
usual  voluntary,  a  solemn  dirge  was  performed,  and, 
after  service,  "I  know  that  my  Redeemer  liveth," 
was  given  with  great  effect  upon  that  organ  at  which 
the  deceased  had  for  so  many  years  presided. 

In  proof  of  his  masterly  management  of  the  organ, 
it  is  related  by  one  of  his  biographers,  that  when  at 
the  performance  of  one  of  Handel's  Te  Deums,  on 
finding  the  organ  a  semitone  too  sharp  for  the  other 
instruments,  Stanley,  without  the  least  premeditation, 
transposed  the  whole  piece  ;  "  and  this,  with  as  much 
facility  and  address,"  adds  the  writer,  "as  any  person 
could  have  done,  possessed  of  sight."  The  ready 
transposition  of  harmony  so  intricate  as  the  compo- 
sition of  Handel,  alluded  to,  from  the  key  of  two 
sharps  to  that  of  seven,  certainly  proved  Stanley  to 
be  a  competent  master  of  the  instrument,  and  exhib- 
ted  a  degree  of  skill,  power  of  concentration,  and  ce- 


THBIK   ACHIKVEMEMl'S.  306 

lenty  of  thought,  truly  surprising.  Nor  would  it 
have  been  less  wonderful  had  he  possessed  perfect 
sight ;  for  what  had  sight  at  all  to  do  with  the  mat- 
ter? Music  is  addressed  to  the  ear,  and  not  to  the 
eye ;  nor  could  two  of  the  brightest  eyes  that  ever 
prototyped  crotchets  and  quavers  have  rendered  him 
any  material  aid.  True,  the  relative  length,  pitch, 
and  power  of  musical  sounds  are  all  represented  by 
signs  or  characters  addressed  to  the  eye,  by  which  the 
most  difficult  composition  may  be  read  almost  at  a 
glance.  But  in  the  transposition  of  a  piece  commit- 
ted to  memory,  the  presence  of  these  must  tend  rather 
to  distract  than  to  aid. 

One  of  the  most  brilliant  and  interesting  perform 
ers  in  the  concerts  at  Paris,  during  the  season  of  1784, 
was  Mademoiselle  Pakadis,  of  Vienna,  who  lost  her 
sight  in  the  third  year  of  her  age,  from  excessive  fear. 
Her  friends,  it  appears,  had  placed  her,  at  a  very  ten- 
der age,  under  proficient  instructors,  and  when  but 
eleven  years  old,  she  was  able  to  accompany  herself 
on  the  organ  in  a  "  Stabat  Mater,"  of  which  she  sung 
a  part  at  St.  Augustin's  church,  in  the  presence  of 
the  empress  queen,  who  was  so  touched  with  her  per 
forraance  and  interesting  appearance,  that  she  settled 
a  pension  on  her  for  life.  After  completing  her  mu- 
sical education,  she,  in  company  with  her  mother,  via- 
ited  the  principal  courts  and  cities  of  Germany, 
France,  and  England,  where  her  talents  never  failed 
to  enarao'e  the  admiration  of  musicians,  and  the  re 
spect  and  patronage  of  the  royal  families. 


806  BEAUTIES   OF  THE   BLIND. 

Dennis  Hampson,  the  blind  bard  of  Magiliigaii, 
also  deserves  a  place  in  this  series ;  but  more,  i)er- 
haps,  on  account  of  his  abstemious  habits  and  re- 
markable longevity  than  true  musical  taste.  He  was 
born  in  1697,  and  died  at  the  advanced  age  of  one 
hundred  and  ten  years.  Hampson  lost  his  sight  from 
small-pox,  at  the  age  of  three  years,  and  spent  most 
of  his  life  as  a  traveling  bard.  He  was  present  at 
the  great  meeting  of  harpers,  at  Belfast,  and  his  per- 
formance was  pronounced  by  the  amateurs  of  Irish 
music,  the  best  example  of  true  bardic  style.  In 
later  years,  adverting  to  the  occasion,  he  said,  with 
an  honest  feeling  of  self-love,  "  When  I  played  the 
old  tunes,  not  another  of  the  harpers  would  play 
after  me." 

The  following  lines  were  carved  on  his  time-nib- 
bled harp : 

In  the  time  of  Noah  I  was  green. 

After  his  flood  I  have  not  been  seen 

Until  seventeen  hundred  and  two,  I  was  found 

By  Gorman  Kelly,  under  ground ; 

He  raised  me  up  to  that  degree, 

Queen  of  music  they  call  me. 

Tlie  following  lines  on  Ilampson's  death,  which 
appeared  in  the  Belfast  Magazine,  in  1808,  serve  to 
show  how  fondly  his  memory  was  cherished  in  the 
hearts  of  his  countrymen  : 

The  fame  of  the  brave  shall  no  longer  be  sounded. 
The  last  of  our  bards  now  sleeps  cold  in  tlie  grave; 

Magilligan'a  rocks,  where  his  lays  have  resounded. 
Frown  dark  »t  the  ocean  and  spurn  at  the  wave. 


THEIR  ACHIEVEMENTS.  307 

For  Hampson,  no  more  shall  thy  soal-toaching  finger 
Steal  sweet  o'er  the  strings,  and  wild  melody  pour ; 

No  more  near  thy  hut  shall  the  vil.agers  linger, 

While  strains  from  thy  harp  warble  soft  round  the  shore. 

No  more  thy  harp  swells  with  enraptured  emotion. 
Thy  wild  gleams  of  fancy  forever  are  fled  ; 

No  longer  thy  minstrelsy  charms  the  rude  ocean, 
That  rolls  near  the  green  turf  that  pillows  thy  head. 

Yet  vigor  and  youth  with  bright  visions  had  fired  thee, 

And  rose  buds  of  health  have  blown  bright  on  thy  cheek 
The  songs  of  the  sweet  bards  of  Erin  inspired  thee. 

And  urged  thee  to  wander,  bright  laurels  to  seek- 
Yes,  oft  hast  thou  sung  of  our  kings  crowned  with  glory, 

Or,  sighing,  repeated  the  lover's  fond  lay  ; 
And  oft  hast  thou  sung  of  the  bards  famed  in  story. 

Whose  wild  notes  of  rapture  have  long  passed  away. 

Thy  grave  shall  be  screened  from  the  blast  and  the  billow, 

Around  it  a  fence  shall  posterity  raise ; 
Erin's  children  shall  wet  with  tears  thy  cold  pillow, 

Her  youth  shall  lament  thee  and  carol  thy  praise. 

P  RANCI8  LiNLET,  who  lived  near  the  close  of  the 
eighteenth  centnrj,  though  blind  from  his  nativity, 
was  a  most  excellent  performer  on  the  organ*  Nor 
were  his  abilities  confined  alone  to  the  science  of 
music.  He  was  a  charming  companion,  a  very  acate 
reasoner,  and  well  acquainted  with  the  works  of  the 
most  eminent  authors,  ancient  and  modern.  Having 
completed  his  musical  studies  under  Dr.  Miller,  of 
Doncaster,  he  went  to  London,  and  was  the  success- 
ful candidate,  among  seventeen  comj^etitors,  for  the 
situation  of  organist  of  Pentonville  chapel,  and  soon 


"308  BEAUTIES   OF   THE   BLIND. 

after  married  a  blind  lady  of  large  fortune.  This  lat- 
ter step,  howev^er,  we  by  no  means  approbate,  nor  do 
we  record  it  as  a  worthy  example  to  be  followed  by 
Dtlier  blind  persons.  True,  the  afflicted  feel  for  each 
other  a  deeper  and  more  enduring  sympathy  than  the 
mere  appearance  of  misfortune  can  possibly  awaken 
in  others.  But  the  loss  of  sight  begets,  in  some  de- 
gree, a  physical  dependence  upon  those  who  possess 
it.  And  although  a  seeing  companion  may  not  at 
once  anticipate  every  want,  her  highest  happiness 
may  be  found  in  guiding  the  footsteps  of  her  sight- 
less husband,  and  receiving  in  return  his  love  and 
confidence.  We  have  nowhere  contended  that  eyes 
may  be  entirely  dispensed  with  in  human  society  ; 
but  as  there  are  more  eyes  than  brains  in  the  world, 
a  few  of  the  former  may  (we  think)  be  dismissed 
without  creating  seism  among  the  members  of  the 
•body  politic.  Subsequent  to  the  event  adverted  to, 
having  lost  a  large  portion  of  his  property  through 
the  treachery  of  a  friend,  Linley  came  to  the  United 
States,  where  his  performances  soon  brought  him  into 
favoraJ;)le  notice.  He  died  at  Doncaster,  shortly  after 
his  return  to  England,  September  13th,  1800,  in  the 
twenty-ninth  year  of  his  age. 

William  Clemantshaw,  organist  of  the  parish 
church  in  Wakefield,  Yorkshire,  which  situation  he 
held  for  upwards  of  forty  years,  lost  his  sight  in 
youth.  He  died  in  1822,  and  the  following  signifi- 
cant epitaph,  composed  by  himself,  was  inscribed  od 
his  tomb-stone  : 


THEIK   ACHIETKMENTS.  SOff 

•*  Now,  like  an  organ  robbed  of  pipes  and  breath. 
Its  keys  and  stops  all  useless  made  by  death ; 
Though  mute  and  motionless,  in  i-uins  laid. 
Yet,  when  rebuilt  by  more  than  mortal  aid. 
This  instrument,  new  voic'd  and  tun'd,  shall  raise. 
To  God,  its  builder,  hymns  of  endless  praise." 

To  this  list  we  might  add  a  large  number  of  Amer- 
ican blind,  who  have  received  thorough  instruction 
in  the  science  of  music  at  our  several  state  institu- 
tions, and  are  at  present  engaged  as  successful  teach- 
ers and  organists  throughout  the  Union.  But  as  the 
most  of  these  are  still  young  in  reputation,  we  leave 
them  for  a  future  enlarged  edition  of  this  work. 
Perhaps  one  of  the  most  eminent  of  this  number  is 
Professor  R.  Elder,  graduate  of  the  New  York  Insti- 
tution for  the  Blind,  who  has  held  for  several  years 
the  situation  as  organist  in  the  Sixteenth-street  Bap- 
tist Church,  New  York  city,  and  is  acknowledged  the 
second  best  performer  on  that  instrument  in  the  me- 
tropolis. He  is  emphatically  a  true  musical  genius; 
and,  notwithstanding  his  blindness  from  childhood, 
his  pleasing  address  and  gentlemanly  deportment 
have  secured  for  him  extensive  patronage  as  a  teacher 
of  the  piano  forte. 


LEMUEL  ROCKWELL. 

To  distinguish  man  from  the  lower  animals  he  bai 
sometimes  been  denominated  the  tool-using  animal 
By  this  is  meant,  that  instead  of  following  the  in- 
stincts of  his  nature,  he  is  governed  hj  a  higher  law 
of  necessity,  and  he  is  not  only  an  intellectual,  but 
an  inventive  creature.  Indeed,  method  is  the  grand 
lever  of  the  human  mind.  It  is  emphatically  the  tool 
of  thought.  Put  diligence  at  the  long  arm,  and  let 
genius  direct  her  labors,  and  there  are  but  few  ob- 
stacles, even  in  the  blind  man's  path,  that  may  not 
be  thrown  aside.  Another  example  of  mental  tri- 
umph over  physical  condition,  or  in  other  words,  of 
natura'  defects  overcome  by  perseverance  and  proper 
discipline,  may  be  seen  in  the  life  and  successes  of 
Lemuel  Rockwell,  an  American  musician. 

His  birth  was  hail'd  by  those  spirits  of  song, 

Who  dance  in  the  torrent's  foam, 
Or  glide  with  soft  music  the  streamlets  along; 

Or  leap  from  the  fountain's  home. 
Mingling  forever  their  silvery  notes, 

As  from  harps  with  moonbeams  strung, 
With  the  dashing  flood  or  breeze  that  floats 

The  shady  trees  among. 

In  compliance  with  our  request,  Mr.  Rockwell  has 
Kindly  furnished  us  with  a  brief  sketch  of  his  life, 


LEMUEL   ROCKWELL.  Sll 

comprising  some  of  the  most  important  and  interest- 
ing events  of  his  early  history,  and  clearly  demonstra- 
ting a  fact  which  we  have  all  along  sought  to  estab- 
lish, viz:  that  helplessness  and  inactivity  is  not  a  ne- 
cessary sequence  of  blindness — that  the  lack  of  sight 
is  only  a  physical  defect,  and  does  not  presuppose 
mental  deficiency,  or  a  want  of  capacity,  for  knowl- 
edge— and  that  there  are  but  few  of  the  active  pur- 
suits of  life,  in  which  this  class  of  persons  may  not 
engage  with  a  confident  hope  of  success.  It  seems 
to  have  been  Mr.  Rockwell's  maxim,  never  to  hang 
up  the  fiddle  while  a  string  remains  unbroken. 
Never  abandon  a  favorite  project  while  hope  sheds  a 
ray  into  the  future,  or  at  least  until  defeat  is  inevita- 
ble ;  never  desert  hope  until  she  has  first  deserted 
you,  has  been  the  theme  of  his  life's  song.  May  it 
find  an  echo  in  every  aspiring  heai"t. 

In  Mr.  Rockwell  we  recognize  the  true  American 
hero.  Entirely  independent  of  the  special  provision 
made  by  this  and  several  other  of  the  sister  states,  for 
the  education  of  the  blind,  he  has  raised  himself  by 
his  own  industry  and  perseverance,  from  a  very  hum- 
ble station  in  life,  to  one  of  honor  and  usefulness. 
The  complete  victory  he  has  achieved  over  the  diffi- 
culties consequent  on  blindness — his  proficiency  in 
thorough  bass,  and  success  as  a  teacher  of  vocal  and 
instrumental  music — it  is  hoped  may  serve  as  an  in- 
centive to  greater  exertions  on  the  part  of  the  blind, 
generally,  and  to  convince  those  who  still  entertain 
doubts  whether  the  blind  can  or  cannot  teach  music. 


812  BEAUTIES  OF  THE  BLIND. 

that  what  has  been  realized  in  Mr.  Rockwell's  expe 
rience,  might  be  true  in  almost  every  other  instance, 
were  it  not  for  public  prejudice.  Why  refuse  this 
class  of  musicians  what  you  do  not  deny  to  others, 
whom  nature  has  more  highly  favored,  at  least  the 
benefit  of  an  experiment  ?  We  speak  with  candor 
and  earnesifness.  because  it  has  been  our  misfortune 
to  experience  some  strong  opposition  in  this  partic- 
ular branch.  It  seems  most  astonishing  that,  not- 
witlistanding  the  ability  of  the  blind  as  teachers  of 
music  has  been  proved  in  so  many  instances,  and  ac- 
knowledged by  so  many  eminent  masters  of  tlie  art ; 
that,  regardless  of  all  that  has  been  done  by  philan- 
thropists in  instituting  schools  for  the  education  of 
this  class,  in  order  to  fit  them  for  a  high  and  useful 
station  in  life  ;  that,  notwithstanding  all  this,  there  are 
some  who  still  persist  in  thinking  that  the  lack  of 
sight  totally  incapacitates  a  man  for  any  branch  of 
business.  To  aspire  to  any  of  the  professions,  or  even 
to  the  art  of  piano  forte  tuning,  is  in  their  opinion  an 
unpardonable  presumption.  They  cannot,  it  seems, 
understand  how  it  is,  that  one  who  is  unable  to  dis- 
tinguish by  actual  contrast  of  color  the  form  of  the 
characters  which  represent  sounds,  should  have  any 
knowledge  of  the  nature  or  properties  of  sounds  them- 
selves, or  the  relation  they  sustain  to  each  other,  in 
pitch,  power,  or  duration.  We  are  pleased  with  the 
manner  in  which  Mr.  Rockwell  has  presented  this 
subject,  and  we  trust  our  readers  will  find  it  equally 
intei'esting  and  instructive. 


LEMUEL   R<X5KWia.L.  818 

"I  have  not  the  vanity,"  says  Mr.  Rockwell,  "  to 
Rtippose  that  a  life  spent  like  mine,  in  poverty  and 
comparative  obscurity,  a  life  whose  details  comprise 
little  of  thrilling  adventures  or  remarkable  achieve- 
ment, can  furnish  any  considerable  amount  of  mate- 
lial  that  will  be  of  much  interest  to  the  general 
reader ;  nevertheless,  in  compliance  with  your  re 
quest,  I  submit  the  following  statements,  as  compri- 
sing in  the  main  an  account  of  the  leading  circum- 
stances and  influences  to  which  I  am  indebted 
for  the  little  I  have  achieved,  or  hereafter  may  ac- 
complish. 

"  I  was  bom  October  9th,  1817,  in  the  town  of  Sims- 
bury,  Hartford  county,  Connecticut.  Very  early 
in  my  infancy  my  parents  became  apprehensive,  from 
indications  that  could  not  elude  parental  vigilance, 
that  I  was  laboring  under  some  marked  peculiarity 
or  infirmity,  either  mental  or  physical,  and  they  were 
not  long  in  identifying  it  as  total  blindness.  Tliose 
who  have  watched  over  the  cradle  of  a  new-born  in- 
fant, observing,  with  that  tender  interest  which  pa- 
rental affection  only  can  insi)ire,  every  indication 
having  the  slightest  bearing  upon  the  question  of  its 
present  development  or  future  prospects,  will  ima- 
gine the  feeling  of  my  parents  on  being  forced  to  this 
most  unwelcome  conclusion — the  more  unwelcome, 
from  their  present  and  prospec-ive  povert} .  I  muse, 
m  all  probability,  be  dependent  for  a  subsistence, 
either  on  my  own  exertions,  or  on  public  or  pnvaie 


314  BEAUTIES   OF   THE    BLIND. 

charity.  As  for  the  former,  it  was  difficult  for  them 
to  conceive  how  any  one  enveloped  in  total  dark- 
ness should  be  able  to  grope  his  way  to  any  depart- 
ment of  useful  enterprise;  and,  as  for  the  latter, 
everybody  feels  the  truth,  as  well  as  the  poetry,  ot 
Thomas  Hood's  exclamation — 


•Alas  for  the  rarity 
Of  chri-itian  charity 
Under  the  bud.* 

^'  The  key  to  the  little  I  have  attained  in  the  way 
of  general  knowledge,  will,  I  apprehend,  be  found  in 
the  fact  that  my  father  was  an  ardent  lover  of  scien- 
tific and  literary  pursuits,  and  devoted  to  them  nioie 
time  and  attention  than  the  generality  of  men  in  his 
sircumstances  would  have  thought  it  prudent  to  spare 
from  their  ordinary  vocations.  He  delighted  in  read- 
ing to  his  family,  and  especially  to  me,  knowing,  as 
he  did,  that  all  my  knowledge  of  books  must  be  ac- 
quired by  hearing  them  read  by  others.  Not  being 
able  to  join,  to  any  considerable  extent,  in  the  in- 
dustrial or  recreative  employments  of  other  children, 
I  had  time  to  hear,  and  to  digest  what  I  heard,  so 
that  what  I  lost  in  not  being  able  to  read  for  myself 
was,,  in  a  measure,  made  up  to  me  in  the  fact  that  I 
had  leisure  to  hear  and  to  think. 

"  When  I  was  in  my  sixth  year,  I  was  sent,  or  rather 
permitted,  to  go  to  school  with  my  elder  brotiier, 
and  from  that  time  onward,  I  continued  to  go  to 
ftchool  about  as  regularly  as  children  in  general  do, 


LEMUEL  BOCK  WELL.  315 

till  I  was  some  fifteen  years  old.  During  this  time, 
I  acquired  a  tolerable  familiarity  with  the  contents 
of  Webster's  Old  Spelling  Book,  the  historical  poKiona 
of  the  New  Testament,  and  Murray's  English  Reader, 
as  much  so,  at  least,  with  the  book  last  mentioned, 
as  my  Timited  underetanding,  and  the  mumbling, 
drawling,  inarticulate  style  of  school-boy  reading  in 
those  days,  would  permit.  I  also  acquired  a  tolera- 
ble knowledge  of  Englisli  grammar,  in  which  Kirk- 
ham  was  ray  principal  text  book.  To  this,  if  I  add 
Comstock's  Philosophy,  except  so  much  of  it  as  re- 
lates to  optics,  you  will  have  about  the  extent  of  my 
school  attainments. 

"In  August,  1825,  we  removed  to  the  town  of  South- 
port,  Ghemung  county,  New  York,  some  three  or  four 
miles  from  the  now  large  and  flourishing  village  of 
Elmira;  since  which  time  I  have  resided  almost  ex- 
clusively in  Western  New  York.  What  I  have  stated 
before  in  reference  to  my  father's  connection  with  my 
early  intellectual  development,  is  preeminently  ap- 
plicable to  my  musical  education.  It  was  under  his 
instruction,  almost  exclusively,  that  I  acquired,  a 
knowledge  of  the  fundamental  principles  of  music. 
I  did  not  proceed  to  learn  the  principles  of  musical 
science  from  a  knowledge  of  the  written  characters, 
which  are  presented  to  the  eye,  but  from  musical 
sounds  themselves,  which  are  addressed  to  the  e*ir. 
On  the  contrary,  I  had  a  pretty  thorough  knowledge 
of  the  scale  and  its  various  transpositions,  through 
the  different  major  and  minor  keys,  before  I  knew 


316  BEAUTIES   OF  THE   BLIN1>. 

anything  of  the  staft*,  clefs,  flats,  sharps  and  naturalS) 
which  are  merely  the  modes  of  representing  the  pitch 
of  sounds  to  the  eye.  T  knew,  also,  that  musical 
sounds,  as  it  respects  their  length  or  duration,  bore  cer- 
tain definite  proportions  to  each  other,  which  I  could 
easily  analyze  in  my  mind  before  I  knew  anything 
of  the  mode  of  representing  them  to  the  eye,  by  the 
different  forms  of  whole  notes,  half-notes,  &c.,  and  I 
probably  never  should  have  troubled  myself  to  learn 
the  written  characters,  but  for  the  necessity  of  being 
able  to  explain  them  in  teaching  them  to  others. 
The  acquisition,  however,  was  of  great  service  to  me. 
For,  besides  the  advantage  of  being  able  to  explain 
.the  written  characters,  the  knowledge  of  them  ena- 
bled me  to  learn  musical  composition,  by  hearing  the 
written  characters  described,  one  by  one,  by  those 
who,  though  they  might  not  be  able  to  sing  or  play, 
had  acquired  that  least  of  all  musical  attainments, 
the  knowledge  of  the  names  and  forms  of  the  written 
characters.  A  large  share  of  the  music  which  I  now 
retain  in  memory,  and  much  that  I  have  forgotten, 
was  learned  in  this  way.  I  subjoin  an  illust'-ation  of 
tliis  mode  of  reading  music:  This  tune,  says  my  reader, 
lias  B  flat  for  iUi  signature  ;  the  rhythmic  sign  is  4-4 ; 
the  first  note  of  the  soprano  is  a  half-note  on  the  let- 
ter F,  followed  by  a  bar ;  the  next  is  a  quarter  on  A ; 
next  two  quarters  on  C  ;  next  a  quarter  on  D,  fol- 
lowed by  a  bar ;  then  a  half  on  C,  and  a  quarter  on 
A.  I  need  not  pursue  the  illustration  farther.  The 
reader  familiar  with  the  tune  may  have  discovered 


LEMUEL   ROCKWELL.  317 

tbat  I  have  given  orally  the  first  strain  of  the  well 
known  Missionary  Hymn. 

*'  I  never  attended  a  music  school  of  any  kind  untii 
I  M  as  fifteen  years  of  age ;  and  here  I  must  indulge 
my  vanity  so  far  as  to  state  a  circumstance  which 
will  illustrate  the  progress  which  my  teacher  and  I 
had  made,  respectively,  in  musical  science,  premising 
that  he  was  a  young  man  just  making  his  first  at- 
tempt at  teaching.  Having  occasion  to  sing  a  tune, 
which  was  written  in  the  key  of  E  flat,  he  directed 
me  to  give,  on  my  flute,  the  letter  E.  What  is  the 
signature,  I  inquired.  Three  flats,  replied  the  teacher. 
Then,  said  I,  the  key  is  E  flat.  I  then  explained  to 
him  the  difterence  between  the  keys  of  E  and  E 
flat.  He  understood  it,  but  said  it  was  something  he 
never  thought  of  before.  He  had  been  accustomed, 
like  many  that  I  have  since  met  with,  to  regard  and 
treat  the  signature  of  four  sharps  and  three  flats,  as 
indicating,  for  all  practical  purposes,  one  and  the 
same  thing.  1  had  never  heard  anything  which  even 
pretended  to  choir  singing,  till  the  winter  above  men- 
tioned. The  only  examples  of  vocal  performance  I 
had  heard,  except  at  my  father's  fireside,  were  at 
Methodist  meetings,  in  an  old  school-house,  and  at 
camp-meetings,  and  the  like. 

"  In  the  autumn  of  1833,  just  as  I  was  entering  my 
eighteenth  year,  I  went  to  the  town  of  Independence, 
Allegany  county.  New  York,  for  the  purpose  of 
spending  a  few  weeks  in  the  family  of  a  brother  who 
was  residing  there.     At  this  time,  I  could  play  very 


*H8  BEATJTIES   OF   THE   BLIND. 

well,  for  a  country  lad,  on  the  fife  and  flute,  and  a 
little  on  the  violin,  and  had  as  good  a  voice  for  sing- 
ing as  boys  at  that  age  are  apt  to  have,  and  knew  a 
good  many  tunes,  and  could  sing  them  by  syllables, 
or  by  note,  as  it  was  then  called ;  and  I  could  talk 
learnedly,  for  a  blind  boy,  about  scales,  keys,  major 
and  minor  modes,  modulations,  etc.  etc.  On  the 
whole,  I  suppose  1  was  considered  by  the  good  peo- 
ple of  that  place  as  a  sort  of  musical  prodigy.  Un- 
der the  circumstances,  it  occurred  to  me  that  now 
was  my  time  to  realize  what  had  been  a  favorite 
scheme  with  me  for  a  long  time,  namely,  to  become 
a  music  teacher.  I  had  attended  two  singing  schools, 
and  watched  the  movements  of  the  teachers,  as  well 
as  a  blind  boy  could,  but  I  had  not  been  able  to  dis- 
cover anything  in  their  mode  of  conducting  singing 
schools  which  I  could  not  learn  to  imitate. 

"  The  maxim  that  a  prophet  is  not  without  honor 
save  in  his  own  country,  was  now  in  my  favor.  I 
was  some  sixty  miles  from  home,  in  a  community 
where  there  was  but  little  musical  knowledge  ;  suc- 
cess would  immortalize,  and  failure  was  a  bug-bear, 
which  could  not,  for  the  moment,  obtrude  itself  upon 
my  sanguine  mind.  I  broached  my  plan  to  one  or 
two  leading  men  in  the  place,  who  seemed  to  regard 
it  with  favor.  A  meeting  was  called,  a  subscription 
was  circulated,  and  in  process  of  time,  I  was  duly  in- 
vested with  the  labors  and  responsibilities  of  a  coun 
try  singing  master. 

"The  time  for  the  commencement  of  the  school  was 


LEMUEL    ROCKWELL.  319 

9 

appointed,  and  now,  for  the  first  time,  tlie  dlflicultiea 
of  my  position  began  to  stare  me  in  the  face.  I  had 
now,  for  the  first  time,  to  perplex  myself  with  those 
little,  vexatious  details  which  relate  to  written  music, 
sucli,  for  instance,  as  the  mode  of  applying  the  letters 
to  the  stafi",  as  indicated  by  the  diflferent  clefs.  The 
form  of  the  dift'erent  kinds  of  notes,  and  rests,  flats, 
sharps  and  naturals,  slurs,  pauses  and  staccato  marks, 
and  numerous  otiier  matters,  for  which  I  had  hereto- 
fore had  no  use.  must  all  be  minutely  investigated 
A  thousand  little  difficulties,  real  and  imaginary 
pressed  upon  my  mind  with  such  force  as  to  drive 
me  almost  to  despair.  Had  it  not  been  for  the  earn- 
est remonstrances  of  my  brother  and  his  wife,  I  be- 
lieve I  should  have  abandoned  the  undertaking.  I 
felt  sure  I  could  not  succeed,  and  should  involve  not 
only  myself,  but  the  friends  whose  eflforts  had  been 
instrumental  in  bringing  me  to  my  present  position, 
in  disgrace  and  mortification.  My  friends,  however, 
cheered  me  on,  and  assisted  me  in  preparing  for  my 
work,  and  on  the  whole,  I  have  reason  to  believe  that 
I  gave  very  good  satisfaction.  It  was  fortunate  for 
my  new  enterprise  that  I  had  to  deal  with  a  plain, 
hospitable  set  of  people,  who  were  prepared  to  make 
the  best  of  whatever  was  good,  and  overlook  imper- 
fections. 

"  I  have  been  thus  minute  in  detailing  these  cir^ 
cumstances,  because  this  was  my  first  entrance  upon 
the  life  of  a  singing  teacher.     From  that  tirae»  on- 


320  BEAUTras  of  the  blind. 

ward,  I  have  taught  from  one  to  six  classes  of  vocal 
music  every  winter. 

"  In  the  summer  of  1837,  I  was  made  acquainted 
with  the  Pestilozzian,  or  inductive  system  of  teach- 
ing, as  explainevl  in  the  Boston  Academy  Manual. 
This,  together  with  the  black-board,  which,  though 
not  a  part  of  the  system,  was  strongly  recommended 
in  connection  with  it,  was  of  great  service  to  me  m 
the  business  of  teaching.  I  could  not,  of  course, 
write  my  own  lessons  en  the  black-board,  'but  any 
person  who  knew  the  form  pf  different  kinds  of  notes, 
could  easily  do  so  with  little  practice.  The  great- 
est obstacle  that  I  have  had  to  encounter  in  teach- 
ing singing  classes  .in  country  villages,  has  been  the 
difficulty  of  transporting  myself  from  place  to  place, 
and  this  is  the  reason  why,  while  teachers  around  me 
have  taught,  in  some  instances,  from  seven  to  ten 
classes  per  week,  I  have  been,  for  the  most  part,  re- 
stricted to  from  two  to  four. 

"Between  the  years  1837  and  1844, 1  have  taught 
one  or  more  classes  in  the  following  places,  namely  : 
Elmira,  Southport,  Laurenceville,  (Pennsylvania,) 
Lindsley,  Addison,  Painted  Post,  Corning,  Pike,  Cen- 
treville,  Hume,  Rushford,  Arcade,  Sardinia,  Frank- 
linville,  and  Castile.  I  have  attended  nearly  all  the 
courses  of  lectures  given  by  Messrs.  Mason  and  "Webb 
at  Rochester. 

"  In  1844,  and  while  I  was  there,  for  the  purj)08e  of 
attending  their  second  course,  Mr.  James  Murray, 
(teacher  and  leader  in  the  choir  of  the  Brick  Church, 


LKMUKL    ROCKWELL.  321 

with  whom  1  had  had  some  previous  acquaintance,) 
proposed  to  me  to  slay  and  try  my  fortune  in  that 
city.  He  reminded  me  of  the  difficulties  I  labored 
under  in  the  country,  and  thought  it  probable  that  I 
might  obtain  a  situation  as  leader  in  one  of  the  choirs 
of  the  city,  which,  together  with  juvenile  and  adult 
classes,  might  be  as  useful  to  others,  and  if  not  more 
profitable  to  myself,  much  less  perplexing  and  labo- 
rious, than  my  operations  in  the  country.  He  fur 
thermore  proffered  me  his  assistance  in  obtaining 
business,  and  as  the  first  step  toward  the  accomplish- 
ment of  his  object,  laid  my  case  before  Mr.  Mason, 
who,  in  turn,  manifested  a  lively  interest  in  the  mat- 
ter, and,  in  conjunction  with  Messrs.  Webb,  Root, 
and  Johnson,  kindly  furnished  me  the  accompanying 
certificate.  I  spent  several  weeks  in  Rochester  with- 
out employment,  but  at  length  an  opening  presented 
itself.  Through  the  influence  of  Mr.  Murray,  I  was 
chosen  as  leader  of  the  choir  of  the  Washington-street 
Presbyterian  church.  In  this  situation,  I  continued 
for  more  than  four  years,  without  interruption. 

It  was  during  this  time  that  I  took  up  in  good  earn- 
est the  study  of  the  piano  forte,  under  the  instruction 
of  Mr.  George  Dutton,  junior.  I  had  previously  had 
a  good  deal  of  hap-hazard  practice  on  the  piano,  but 
had  never,  till  this  time,  taken  up  anything  like  a 
systematic  course  of  piano  forte  study.  Here,  as  in 
vocal  music,  I  was  obliged  to  commit  everything  to 
memory,  by  hearing  the  written  characters  named 
one  by  one.     At  the   end   of  s'x   montlis  aft«''   1 


322  BEAUTIES   OF   THE   BLIND. 

commenced  this  study,  I  had  played  through  Hun- 
ten's  entire  work,  besides  some  other  miscellaneous 
matter.  I  continued  my  practice  under  the  direction 
of  Mr.  Dutton,  for  nearly  three  years.  I  was  influ- 
enced in  taking  up  the  piano,  chiefly  by  the  desire 
of  learning  to  play  the  organ.  I  soon  found,  how- 
ever, that  by  the  time  I  had  gone  over  enough 
ground  to  be  a  good  organist,  I  should  also  be  a 
pianist.  The  result  of  my  four  and  a  half  years'  res- 
idence in  Rochester  has  been  the  adoption  of  piano 
forte  teaching,  as  my  leading  occupation,  while  my 
old  business  of  teaching  vocal  music  has  become  com- 
paratively secondary. 

I  left  Rochester,  April,  1849,  since  which  time,  I 
have  resided,  at  difierent  periods,  in  the  villages  of 
Almond,  Rusliford,  Springville  and  Olean,  giving  in 
struction  to  individuals  and  classes,  both  in  vocal 
and  instrumental  music.  On  the  fourtli  day  of  Marcli, 
1850,  I  was  united  in  marriage  to  Miss  Mary  Yan 
Scoter,  a  native  of  the  town  of  Burns,  Allegany 
county,  New  York,  and  daughter  of  Elias  Yan  Sco- 
ter, one  of  the  oldest  inhabitants  of  that  town.  Our 
union  has  been  crowned  with  a  little  son  and  daugh- 
ter, and  I  may  add,  for  the  benefit  of  those  interested 
in  such  matters,  that  neither  of  them  inherits,  in  the 
slightest  degree,  the  paternal  misfortune. 

The  blind  have  in  general  the  natural  feelings  and 
social  sentiments  of  human  nature  in  full  vigor ;  and 
yet,  a  cold,  mercenary  world  would  impose  on  them, 
indiscriminately,  the  chilling  destiny  of  perpetual  ce- 


LJOnTEL   EOOKWELL.  <  823 

tibacy ;  because  it  lacks  the  magnanimity  to  reach 
forth  a  brother's  helping  hand,  to  aid  them  in  winning 
for  themselves  and  families  that  support  which  their 
own  efforts,  in  manyinstances,  would  obtain  for  them, 
or  even,  as  sometimes  happens,  to  let  them  alone  and 
leave  them  to  work  out  the  problem  of  life,  untram- 
meled  by  impertinent  interference.  I  know  of  men 
in  whose  way  I  never  laid  a  straw,  who,  having  as- 
sumed, a  priori^  that  it  is  impossible  for  a  person 
without  eyesight  to  succeed  in  any  department  of 
useful  enterprise,  so  far  from  rendering  that  assist- 
ance which  would  have  cost  them  nothing,  and  would 
have  been  invaluable  to  me,  have  manifested  a  dis- 
position to  throw  obstacles  in  my  way,  by  diverting 
patronage  to  other  channels,  not  because  they  had 
anything  against  me  personally,  as  they  have  some- 
times been  kind  enough  to  say,  but  in  order,  as  I  am 
obliged  to  believe,  to  demonstrate  to  the  world  the 
wisdom  of  their  premature  decision,  even  though  at 
the  risk  of  blighting  all  my  prospects,  and  involving 
my  family  in  hopeless  poverty  and  dependence. 

Such  men  remind  one  of  the  ancient  prophet,  who 
burned  with  indignation  against  divine  clemency  and 
forbearance,  because  those  benign  attributes  were  ex- 
ercised for  the  preservation  of  a  guilty  but  repentant 
city,  at  the  apparent  expense  of  his  credibility  as  a 
pro\  het.  But  these,  thank  Heaven,  are  some  of  t)ie 
darL  phases  of  human  nature — the  exceptions,  not  th«» 
rule-  -and  it  would  ill  become  me,  the  almost  daily 
recipient  of  human  kindness,  to  indulge  in  anythinsr 


824  .  BEAUTIES   OF  THE   BLIND. 

that  should  even  have  the  appearance  of  indiscrimi- 
nate censure  or  wholesale  animadversion.  But  such 
instances  of  illiberalitj  as  those  above  indicated^ 
though  rare,  are  now  and  then  to  be  met  with,  as  my 
own  experience  painfully  demonstrates. 

But  the  inquiry  is  often  made,  not  only  by  the  caj>- 
tious  and  narrow-minded,  but  by  those  who  would 
fain  hear  an  answer  consonant  with  the  aspirations 
of  the  philanthropic  heart — What  is  there  within  the 
whole  range  of  human  eifort,  which  is  fairly  within 
the  reach  of  the  blind  ?  I  will  not  here  stop  to  dis- 
cuss their  relative  j&tness  or  untitness  for  the  different 
departments  of  industrial  and  professional  enterprise ; 
but,  with  your  permission,  I  beg  leave  to  devote  a 
few  sentences  to  the  question  as  to  the  influence  of 
blindness  as  a  disqualification  for  that  particular 
branch  of  effort  in  which  I  am,  and  have  been  for  so 
many  years,  engaged. 

Can  the  blind  teach  music  ?  Many  persons  seem  to 
have  imbibed  the  impression,  that  the  most  that  the 
blind  can  do  in  the  way  of  imparting  musical  instruc- 
tion, is  to  teach  their  pupils  by  rote  such  musical  com- 
positions or  tunes  as  they  have  learned  themselves  in 
the  same  way  ;  that,  not  being  able,  from  the  nature 
of  the  case,  to  read  and  understand  the  musical  char- 
acters for  themselves,  they  cannot  of  course  be  ex- 
pected to  teach  them  to  others.  Such  persons  forget 
or  overlook  the  principles  adverted  to  by  Mr.  Mason, 
in  the  paper  heretofore  referred  to,  viz  :  that  music 
18  addressed  to  the  ear.     The  knowledge  of  those 


LEMUEL    RCKJKWEXL.  335 

characters  which  are  addressed  to  the  eye,  and  which 
constitute  the  visible  symbols  or  signs  by  which  mu- 
sical relations  are  represented  to  the  sense  of  sight, 
forms  in  reality  but  a  small  part  (we  might,  indeed, 
say  almost  no  part)  of  the  science  of  music.  Their 
relation  to  it  may  be  illustrated  by  that  of  the  alpha- 
bet to  the  science  of  language.  The  eye  alone,  it  is 
true,  can  take  cognizance  of  the  forms  of  the  letters, 
but  beyond  this,  everything  relating  to  the  nature 
and  power  of  letters,  and  their  various  arrangements 
and  combinations  in  forming  syllables  and  words,  as 
well  as  everything  else  relating  to  the  structure  of 
language,  is  addressed  primarily  to  the  ear,  or  per 
haps  more  properly  comprehended  by  the  mind. 

If  this  view  of  the  subject  be  correct,  it  will  fol- 
low as  a  natural  inference,  that  the  principal  qualifi- 
cation in  a  music  teacher  must  be  a  correct  and  culti- 
vated musical  ear,  and  a  mind  familiar  with  the 
nature  and  various  relations  of  musical  sounds ; 
and  in  the  case  of  instrumental  music,  an  acquaint 
ance  with  the  genius  of  the  particular  instrument  in- 
tended to  be  taught.  It  will  scarcely  be  contended, 
that  these  conditions  cannot  be  met  in  the  case  of  the 
blind.  I  am  far  from  assuming  that  blindness  is  not 
in  itself  a  real  disadvantage,  but  then  so  are  numer- 
ous other  things  that  very  successful  teachers  have  to 
encounter,  as  for  instance,  the  want  of  a  knowledge 
of  the  language  in  which  instruction  is  attempted  to 
be  communicated.  A.nd  in  vocal  music,  the  want  of 
comj.  ass,  clearness,  fullness,  flexibility,  or  any  other 


326  BEAUTIES   OF  THE   BLIKD. 

of  those  qnalities  wliich  go  to  constitute  a  good  voice 
for  singing.  All  these,  and  many  more  disadvanta- 
ges that  might  be  named,  have  been  successfully  met 
and  overcome  by  teachers  of  music,  who  have,  in 
spite  of  them,  enrolled  their  names  high  on  the  list 
of  fame. 

I  should  hardly  be  justified,  perhaps,  in  advert 
ing  to  my  own  experience  in  this  connection,  and  yet 
were  the  names  of  Oliva,  Shaw,  Lana,  and  others, 
(who,  in  spite  of  blindness,  have  distinguished  them- 
selves in  this  department,)  blotted  from  the  page  of 
history,  still  I  should  have  the  consolation  of  know- 
ing that  if  substantial  attainments  in  the  science  and 
practice  of  music  are  of  any  value  to  mankind,  I  have 
not  lived  and  labored  in  vain. 

ACCOMPANYING   TESTIMONIALS. 

Mr.  Lemuel  Rockwell  has  been  known  to  me  for  a 
little  more  than  a  year  past.  He  has  attended  the 
lectures  given  to  teachers  of  music  in  this  place  the 
present  year,  and  also  last  year.  I  feel  certain  that 
he  has  a  very  thorough  and  accurate  knowledge  of 
music,  and  also  that  his  taste  and  style  of  perform- 
ance are  highly  creditable  to  him.  Notwithstanding 
his  want  of  sight,  I  believe  him  to  be  well  qualified 
to  teach  singing  schools  ;  indeed,  this  is  not  saying 
quite  enough,  for  if  I  am  not  very  much  in  error,  he 
is  in  an  extraordinary  degree  qualified  for  such  teach- 
ing. I  have  not  any  doubt  but  that,  as  a  teacher,  he 
will  "^-ake  himself  uncommonly  useful,  and  I  feel  as 


LEMUEL    ROCK"V\TCLL.  327 

If  I  could  cordially  recommend  him  to  societies  or 
fsommunities  in  want  of  a  teacher  of  a  singing  school. 
Let  not  the  fact  that  he  is  blind  prevent  his  being 
employed.  Music  is  addressed  to  the  ear — and  it  is 
this  that  is  to  be  principally  cultivated,  (together  with 
the  voice,)  in  singing.  Many  teachers  fail  from  the 
very  fact  that  they  rest  satisfied  with  an  explanation 
of  those  signs  addressed  to  the  eye,  while  they  neg- 
lect the  things  signified  in  sounds  addressed  to  the 
ear.  I  might  say  much  more,  but  this  must  suffice. 
Try  Mr.  Rockwell,  and  you  will  soon  know  the  rest. 

LowEL  Mason,  of  Boston. 
Rochester,  JV.  Y.,  Sept.  19th,  1844. 

This  is  also  fully  and  cheerfully  endorsed  by  Pro- 
fessors Webb,  Johnson,  and  Root. 


COLLECTED  POEMS, 

BT    L.  V.  HALL,  AND    OTHER    BLIND    AUTHORS. 


FROM  THE  REMINISCENCES   OF  UNCLE  TOBY, 

rO&PORTlAG    TO    BAVK    BEEN    FOt'KD    AMONG    THE   PAPEBS   09    A    I>K0KA8«< 
RELATIVE. 

One  sultry  eve  in  summer  time 

I  sauntered  forth  to  make  some  rhyme 

Upon  the  moon,  or  some  fair  thing 

About  whicli  poets  love  to  sing: 

The_ stars  looked  down  but  wondrous  suy 

As  if  they  half  suspected  I 

Had  come  to  sing,  as  oft  I'd  done, 

My  tributes  to  some  favored  one. 

That  chanced  to  glimmer  softly  out. 

Or  twinkle  o'er  some  favorite  spot, 

Where  it  might  shed  its  golden  light 

Upon  her  silken  couch,  'twas  right  ;^ 

But  now  the  bard  conld  find  no  theme, 

Nor  could  his  muse  suggest  a  scheme. 

The  nightingale  had  caught  a  cold. 

And  the  owl  laughed  hoarser  than  of  old. 

As  if  he  saw  my  silly  plight. 

And  scorned  my  mission  ;   well  he  might, 

For  truly  now  I'd  lost  the  vein. 

Or  sadder  still,  had  racked  my  brain. 

Or  crazed  it,  in  a  fruitless  quest 

Of  something  that  might  stand  the  test 

Of  critics,  when  my  purse  should  fail, 

Sinc«  m<4rit,  then,  can  naught  avail. 


OOLLBOTED   POEMS.  Z29 

The  dust  will  fill  a  critic's  eye. 

So  through  it  he  cannot  descry 

The  grossest  error,  right  I  'twill  do  f 

While  all  assumes  a  golden  hue. 

The  author  has  a  lofty  soul. 

He's  paid  me  well,  I  must  extol 

His  wit,  his  genius,  perfect  rhyme. 

What  imagery  f  sublime  I  sublime  I 

Enough,  we  turn  from  this  digression. 

For  lo  I  the  bard  has  got  possession 

Of  one  stray  thought,  that  chanced  to  crawl 

From  some  dark  corner  in  his  skull, 

Where  dormant  it  perhaps  had  lain 

For  years,  as  seeds  their  germs  retain. 

As  torpid  flies,  from  rubbish  creep. 

When  spring  awakens  from  their  sleep 

The  insect  tribes,  the  croaking  frogs. 

And  lizards  in  a  thousand  quags: 

And  with  her  warm  sweet  breath,  inspirea 

Their  little  hearts  to  strange  desires. 

The  bees  to  buza  among  the  flowers. 

The  birds,  to  test  their  vocal  powers, 

By  warbling  sweetest  melody. 

From  early  morn  till  twilight  gray 

Steals  softly  down  the  flowery  rales. 

Till  milkmaids  with  their  flowing  pails. 

Come  singing  home  their  evening  song. 

As  merrily  they  trip  along: 

While  frogdom,  from  her  ugly  throata 

Contributes  such  discordant  notes. 

That  e'en  the  screech-owl  turns  away 

Ashamed  of  nature's  orchestra. 

No  matter,  he  shall  not  defeat 

My  aim,  my  simile's  complete. 

And  thus  had  genius  fancy  Uiught, 

To  break  the  chrysalis  of  thought. 

To  mould  it  with  a  skulptor's  skill. 

In  forms  that  best  wight  please  her  wiU. 


330  BEAUTIES   OF   THE   BLIND. 

To  give  it  life  and  buoyancy. 
And  powers  of  such  fecundity, 
That  little  thoughts,  from  embryo, 
Came  torth  and  like  the  fungus  grew. 
Thus  did  one  straggling  thought  inspire 
The  bard  with  such  poetic  fire, 
That  from  his  ventilated  bonnet 
Escaped  this  rare  ethereal  sonnet : 

Through  fate'p  kaleidoscope  I  see, 
That  what  has  been,  again  may  be. 
Tliis  world  is  like  a  dinner  pot, 
Filled  with  water  boiling  hot: 
Each  atom  near  the  heated  sides 
Expands,  and  to  the  surface  glides. 
While  those  which  float  upon  the  top^ 
A.re  cooled,  and  to  the  bottom  drop. 

But  soon  they  kiss  the  heated  metal. 
And  soon  expand,  while  from  the  ketUo 
Clouds  of  mist  in  air  ascend, 
And  so  on  till  the  boiling  end. 
While  clouds  of  mist  in  air  ascend. 
And  so  on  till  the  boiling  end. 
So  on  till  the  boiling  end. 
And  so  on  till  the  boiling  end. 

Nor  is  the  circle  yet  complete. 
Its  perimeter  does  not  yet  meet. 
The  air  is  like  an  onion  formed 
Of  strata,  ever  cooled  and  warmed. 
In  regions  so  unequally. 
iTiat  watery  vapor  thus  set  free. 
Is  soon  condensed,  soon  falls  in  raio. 
But  only  to  be  boiled  again. 


COLLECTED   POEMS.  881 

My  Bong  had  ceased ;  but  my  well-tun'd  lyre  still  rung. 

As  the  dying  cadence  to  the  passing  breeze  it  flang : 

Faintly  once  more  it  caught  the  closing  strain. 

And  trembled  with  the  echo— boiled  again. 

My  swng  had  ceasea  ;  the  cypress  gravely  bent 

His  leaf-crowned  head,  in  token  of  assent; 

The  cedars  nodded,  but  the  giant  oak 

Tn  silent  awe  stood  motionless,  as  broke 

From  many  a  deep  ravine  and  rocky  dell. 

The  deathless  theme  my  lyre  had  learned  so  well ; — 

Till  Hvery  strmg,  now  wakening  to  the  strain. 

Murmured  as  died  the  echo— boil'd  again. 

The  winds  were  sighing  softly  through  the  trees, 

As  though  they  had  conspired  to  raise  a  breeze. 

Among  some  distant  clouds,  that  lowering,  hung 

Above  the  mountain  peaks  that  tow'ring  flung 

Their  long  dark  shadows  o'er  the  grassy  plain. 

That  lengthen'd  as  the  fading  moonlight  waned. 

Amazed  I  stood,  and  bent  my  listening  ear 

To  catch  the  last  faint  sound  that  lingered  near. 

When,  horrible  to  tell  I  from  some  lone  dell. 

Broke  on  the  midnight  air  a  fiercer  yell. 

Than  ever  burst  from  Satan's  marshal'd  hosts. 

E'en  when  through  space  they  scourg'd  the  shi  v'ring  ghoat& 

With  knotted  chords  of  fire,  full  of  stings. 

With  twisted  tails  of  comets,  and  other  things. 

As  when  from  thundering  Etna  hurts  on  high 

A'flood  of  liquid  fire  to  the  sky, 

Piercing  its  sable  shroud  with  fury  driven. 

As  if  the  burning  shaft  were  aimed  at  heaven. 

To  vent  the  rage  that  long  had  been  repressed. 

Deep  beneath  old  osean's  heaving  breast 

So  rose  this  tide  of  sound  to  upper  air. 

And  with  the  spirits  cf  song  who  hover  ther«. 

Claimed  equal  fellowship  by  right  of  birth. 

Since  all  are  creatures  of  the  bards  of  earth. 

Prepost'rons  claim!    most  impudent  I  as  well 

Mi|{ht  some  infectious  fuul  and  putrid  smell, 


X32  BEADTIE8   OF  THE   BLIND. 

Reeking  from  the  pest-house,  breathing  death 

On  all  who  feel  its  pestilential  breath. 

Claim  sweet  communion  with  those  spices  rare^ 

That,  dewy  wing'd,  float  on  the  ev'ning  air 

From  many  a  Persian  bower,  where  hand  in  hand 

The  cinnamon  and  jessamine  sighing,  stand 

Like  lovers,  side  by  side,  while  at  their  feet. 

On  beds  of  silken  moss,  sleep  violets  sweet. 

Nor  was  I  at  a  loss  to  guess  the  source 

From  whence  arose  a  laugh,  so  crack'd  and  coars? 

A  scream  so  strange  and  wild  that  night  drew  bac« 

And  made  the  long  deep  shadow  still  more  black. 

The  hills  once  more  reechoed  with  the  sound. 

The  giant  oak,  with  awe  no  less  profound, 

Stood  motionless:  the  lofty  cedars  bow'd. 

And  e'en  my  lyre  in  concert  breathed  aloud. 

In  unison  with  echo's  fickle  voice, 

That  may  alike  with  asses  and  poets  rejoice. 

With  sick  disgust  I  turned,  and  soon  retraced 

The  path  that  led  to  so  unhallowed  a  place: 

But  breathing  at  every  step  a  malediction 

On  my  long-eared  competitor — sore  affliction  I 

To  see  my  star  of  hope  so  soon  eclipsed. 

To  find  the  cup  of  joy  dashed  from  my  lips. 

Ere  from  its  sparkling  brim  I  scarce  had  quaffed 

One  drop  of  its  intoxicating  draught 

To  hear  the  voice  of  praise  so  soon  retire. 

To  feel  my  bosom  heave  with  mad'ning  ire. 

To  snuff  the  breeze  of  favor  but  to  find 

It  ever  changing,  fickle  as  the  wind. 

Nay  more :  the  fates  had  never  haply  crowned 

My  efforts  with  success,  but  ever  frowned, — 

And  frowning,  turned  away  contemptuously  ; 

Aye,  sometimes  cursed  the  half  fledg'd  progeny, 

Tliat  patience  with  assiduous  care  had  brought. 

And  nurtured  from  the  overa  of  thought. 

Mysterious  fate  I  in  what  portentous  cloud 

lliat  rose  at  life's  first  dawn  didst  thou  enshroud 


COLLEOTEI)   POEMS.  833 

Forever  in  silent  gloom  my  destiny, 

And  shall  this  cloud  forever  obscure  life's  day? 

Shall  evening  gather  o'er  me  when  I'm  old. 

With  all  its  dusky  shaflows  drear  and  cold, 

And  not  one  star  to  light  my  lonely  way 

Upon  the  unknown  deep  of  Eternity  F 

Shall  age  come  tott'ringon  with  feeble  tread. 

With  furrowed  brow,  with  bow'd  and  hoary  head. 

And  the  dim  eye  turn  once  more  to  view  the  past, 

Andthe  heart  grow  sick  and  faint,  as  the  chilling  blast 

Of  disappointment  sweeps  o'er  the  sadden'd  soul. 

When  memory  fain  would  die,  shall  I  be  old! 

Shall  youth  go  forth  uncheck'd  'mid  the  frowns  of  Ueaven 

Unblessed  by  those  who  should  have  counsel  given. 

Unloved,  unwept,  by  those  who  should  have  known 

How  the  young  soul  lives  in  affection's  tone? 

Andean  the  world,  with  all  its  pomp  and  pride. 

Its  cold  and  hollow  hearts,  fill  up  this  void  f 

My  boyhood  dreams  are  past!  their  visions  fled  I 

And  the  brightest  flowers  of  hope  are  crushed  and  dead. 

The  thunder's  voice,  and  the  wild  bleak  wind  that  moana 

Through  the  forests  deep,  are  to  me  affection's  tones. 

Ah,  yes;  e'en  now  yon  ocean's  beating  surge 

Hath  hollowed  my  grave,  and  sung  my  funeral  dirge ; 

And  on  my  ear  hath  died  the  passing  knell, — 

Socks,  mountains,  streams,  and  home,  farewell  I   farawell 

Farewell  I  the  echo  cried,  as  the  dark  sea  spread 

Its  troubled  waters  o'er  my  aching  head : 

And  the  wild  waves  moaned,  as  their  sparkling  crest  I  clave, 

A  requiem  o'er  the  heart-sick  poet's  grave.  L^*^' 

Strange  sights :  strange  sounds ;  the  world  seemed  all  oa 

A  comet's  torch  had  lit  the  parched  air. 

Nor  would  the  bold  intruder  e'er  retire. 

Till  he  had  scorched  each  false  philosopher. 

'Hie  stara  like  meteors  fell  from  the  flaming  sky, 

Anti  hissing,  seemed  to  lick  the  ocean  dry. 

Old  night,  affrighted,  spread  her  sable  wioga, 

Unable  to  behold  such  dreadful  thioga. 


334  BEAUTIES    OF  THE   BLINi>. 

Tenturies  passed;  the  seasons  went  and  came, 
Nor  did  the  earth  e'er  vegetate  again. 
-  The  conflagration  o'er,  grim  night  returned. 
Save  where  volcanic  fires  dimly  burn'd ; 
And  hovering,  brooded  darkly  over  earth. 
The  same  chaotic  mass  that  gave  her  birth. 
Silence  once  more  returned,  with  all  her  brood 
Of  timid  nymphs,  to  earth's  vast  solitude. 
And  now  the  question  rose,  is  this  a  dream  f 
Or  are  these  things  now  what  they  really  seemt 
And  as  I  thought,  returning  reason  spoke, 
And  I  once  more  to  consciousness  awoke. 
When,  lol  to  my  surprise,  ray  tortured  brain 
Had  pictured  for  a  dark,  deep  sea,  a  field  of  graii 
And  from  a  wall  of  stone  about  four  feet  high, 
I  had  headlong  plunged  in  a  field  of  waving  rye. 
The  screech-owl  laughed  outright,  as  the  braying 
Proclaimed  the  poet's  drowned.     Alas !  alas ! 
False  echo  caught  the  lie  ere  it  had  died. 
And  with  a  thousand  tongues  the  rocks  replied. 
Till  e'en  my  lyre,  deserted  on  the  grass. 
Murmured  with  regret,  alas!  alas! 
Strange  fate,  thought  I,  the  circle  did  not  meet, 
The  boiling  process  is  not  yet  complete. 
Tlie  numbered  sands  of  life  had  not  run  out ; 
The  die  was  not  yet  cast ;  the  fates,  no  doubt,     , 
Have  yet  reserved  for  me  a  loftier  theme. 
Than  ever  circled  in  a  Dante's  dream. 
A  nobler  end  is  mine  :  the  smallest  rock. 
Dropped  in  the  sea,  communicates  a  shock 
To  every  inert  atom,  from  side  to  side 
Extends  its  bounds  and  elevates  the  tide. 
The  ugliest  toad  that  nature  e'er  gave  birth. 
Need  only  hop  to  move  this  pondrous  earth. 
And  may  not  I  some  magic  lever  find. 
Of  modern  workmanship,  to  move  mankind  f 
The  smallest  mountain  stream  that  winds  along 
Through  deepest  solitude,  mingling  its  song 


COLLECrrED   POBMS.  3Sb 

Of  wildest  joy  with  nature's  symphony, 

Contributes  its  mite  to  swell  the  bright  blue  sea: 

Though  from  obscurity  darkly  it  rose. 

Now  through  the  merry  sunshine  sparkling  it  flowi^ 

Laughing  as  it  leaps  from  rocky  height, 

Or  moaning  in  the  depths  of  chasm'd  night , 

Down,  down  it  madly  rushes  from  rocky  ledge. 

Till  far  across  the  plains,  through  heath  and  hedge, 

It  gurgles  on,  and  gurgling  evermore. 

Till  lost  amid  the  sea's  tumultuous  roar. 

Inexorable  fate  I  the  frailest  flower 

That  blooms  to  fade  and  wither  in  an  hour. 

That  smiles  unseen,  unloved  to  pass  away, 

Secures  the  object  of  its  destiny! 

Yet  men  there  are  who  never  seem  to  find 

The  humble  end  to  which  they  were  design'd ; 

Ambitious  aspirants  for  power  and  fame, 

Butdieat  last,  and  leave  what?  scarce  a  name. 

Others  there  are,  though  much  less  worthy,  found, 

Whom  nature  with  her  choicest  gifts  hath  crowned. 

Prodigiesindeed,  yet  the  world  must  own. 

That  fame  ne'er  epitaphed  a  more  reckless  dronei 

More  pets  hath  fate,  though  less  supremely  bleat, 

Those  who  on  the  arm  of  fortune  rest 

Content,  if  with  earth's  countless  bounties  fed. 

With  pockets  filled  'tis  true,  but  empty  head. 

But  here  must  end  the  theme  of  my  moonstruck  sonj^ 

For  the  ox  must  hear  my  voice  at  tho  plow  ere  long; 

The  nightingale  hath  flown,  the  owl  is  gone. 

And  the  first  red  light  of  morn  begins  to  dawn. 

Trol  la  I  trol  la  I  away  to  the  plow  I 

Both  happy  and  free  is  a  farmer's  son ; 
He  earns  his  own  bread  by  the  sweat  of  his  brow. 

And  lives  at  his  ease  when  his  toil  is  done. 
By  honest  industry  he  has  gained  his  wealth. 
And  lives  for  his  friends  as  well  as  himselil 
Trollal  trol  la  1  sing  merrily 
A  farmer's  life  is  the  life  for  me  I 


336  BEAUTIES    OF   THE    BLIND. 

With  the  lowing  ox,  and  the  bleating  fldcks 
With  horses  and  swine  his  land  he  stocks ; 
Of  useful  books  has  a  rich  supply, 
And  his  garners  are  filled  with  corn  and  rye. 
In  the  cool  green  glade  he  sleeps  in  the  shade. 
But  dreams  of  none  but  a  farmer's  maid. 

Trol  la !  trol  lal  sing  merily ! 

A  farmer's  life  is  the  life  for  me ; 

Trol  la!  trol  la!  both  happy  and  free 

Is  a  farmer's  life,  'tis  the  life  for  me. 

But  why  this  ecstacy,  this  overflow, 

This  thrill  of  soul  J  the  poet  does  not  know. 

Of  the  field  of  rye  he  has  lost  all  recollectioa, 

Sufficeth  that  he's  made  a  resurrection; 

And  sauntering  listless  homeward,  luckily  strayed 

Beneath  the  window  of  his  dairy-maid  ; 

And  as  the  lark  her  song  to  the  free  air  flings, 

The  lover  tunes  his  lyre,  and  thus  he  sings  * 

Sweet  Lizzie,  awake !  'tis  early  dawn, 

The  golden  e3'e8  of  morn 
Are  peeping  in  o'er  flow'ry  lawn. 

And  fields  of  waving  corn. 
The  eastern  hills  with  rosy  light 

Are  blushing  thixjugh  the  trees, 
And  odors  sweet  from  roses  bright. 

Float  on  the  morning  breeze. 

Yet,  dim  are  morning's  eyes  to  thine. 

And  pale  her  rosy  light, 
To  the  blushes  on  thy  clieek  divine. 

And  thy  neck  so  lily  white. 
Then  Lizzie  awake!  the  dew-drops  brighl 

Are  sparkling  on  each  tree. 
And  a  garland  of  roses  red  and  white, 

Have  I  wreathed  in  beauty  to  thse. 


OOLLKOTKD   POUuMS.  33'* 

TERESA,  OR  THE  PEASANT  MOTHER. 

I  trac«d  a  riv<>r  from  the  deep,  dark  wood. 

To  where  it  meets  old  ocean's  darker  flood. 

Through  all  its  windings  down  the  mountain  8id«^  *• 

■  I  watched  it  as  it  leaped  through  ol.asms  wide, 

Through  ravines  dark  and  deep  I  hear  it  roar, 

And  now  from  craggy  heights  its  torrents  pour, 

Foaming  and  dashing  in  its  onward  course, 
*■  rhe  firmest  rock  it  breaks  with  giant  force; 

Hurling  far  below  in  deafening  sound 

Each  fragment,  till  the  mountain  caves  resound. 

Still  on  it  flows,  not  like  the  jaded  steed, 

[n  bloody  conflict  forced  to  staj'  his  speed. 

But  o'er  the  distant  plains  and  mossy  green. 

Through  fruitful  vales,  its  shining  path  is  seen. 

High  on  the  summit  of  a  lofty  mount, 

T'lere  rose  in  grandeur  wild  a  crystal  fount ; 

Around  dense  groves  of  spruce  and  cedar  stood. 

To  shade  the  cradle  of  the  infant  flood  , 

Tlie  holly  bush  and  fir  their  branches  spread, 

But  not  a  single  floweret  reared  its  head 

Above  the  mossy  rocks,  that  rudely  lay 

Around  the  fountain,  glittering  with  itai  spray. 

The  day  was  bright  and  fair,  and  many  a  stag 

Came  bounding  o'er  the  rocks  from  crag  to  crag; 

The  antelope  looked  down  from  dizzy  height, 

And  ravens  screamed  in  their  airy  flight 

In  this  sequestered  spot  I  saw  a  maid. 

Seated  in  the  deep,  cool  forest  shade ; 

A  peasant  girl  she  seemed,  of  tender  years. 

But  her  cheek  was  pallid  and  bedewed  with  tear* 

Her  eye  was  wild  and  restless  as  a.gleam 

Of  starlight  on  a  turbid,  mountain  stream. 

Her  brow  was  strongly  marked  with  anxious  c»r« 

And  near  her  stood  a  boy  with  flaxen  hair; 

His  golden  ringlets  floating  in  the  breeze. 

That  from  tlie  vale  came  sighing  through  th»  tr«M^ 


•''•^S  BEAUTIES    OF   THE    BLIND. 

Bearing  upon  its  light  wing  many  a  sigh 
Of  fainting  flowers  beneath  a  sunny  sky. 
How  sad  it  is,  thought  I,  that  one  so  young 
Should  weep ;  but  aa  I  wondered  thus  she  sun^  t 


TERESA  8    SONG. 

"  Oh  1  happy  dreams  of  infancy, 
How  dear  your  memory  is  to  me  ; 
Why  lingered  not  those  joyous  hours  f 
When  but  a  child  in  quest  of  flowers 
I  plucked  the  wildest  rose,  and  say 
Was  I  not  pure  and  wild  as  they  I 
But  ah  I  'tis  past,  they  've  fleeted  by, 
And  nought  is  left  but  infamy. 
Tell  if  ye  can,  ye  limpid  streams. 
That  now  so  wildly  drink  the  beams 
Of  the  wann  sunshine,  as  ye  go, 
What  fate  awaits  you?     Ah  I  no,  no! 
-    We  simple  peasants,  like  these  brooks, 
Find  in  our  paths  a  thousand  nooks; 
But  the  proud,  the  opulent,  tlie  gay. 
Are  mightier  streams,  yet  like  us,  they 
Through  darker,  deeper  channels  go. 
All  bright  above,  all  black' below." 

But  soon  a  cloud  had  gathered  o'er  the  mounts 

And  higher  rose  the  gushing  crystal  fount. 

As  if  to  pierce  its  sable,  mystic  shroud,  • 

And  drink  the  sunshine  through  the  threat'ning  cluud 

But  dense  and  fleeting  mists  swept  o'er  the  plain. 

And  now  in  torrents  falls  the  dashing  rain ; 

From  sliattered  crag  to  crag  forked  lightnings  leap 

And  tempests  howl  in  the  forest  deep. 

Peal  after  peal  of  thunder  shook  the  ground. 

Till  pawning  caverns  echoed  back  the  sound. 

Alarmed,  the  mother  clasped  in  fond  embrace 

Her  rosy  boy,  and  down  the  mount  retraced 


OOLLKOTED    I'OKMS.  3J19 

A  rugged  path,  that  near  a  chasm  led. 
Where  dark  below  a  foaming  torrent  sped. 
How  anxiously  I  watched  her  gliding  form 
Among  the  rocks  and  trees  ;  but  soon  the  Btonn 
Had  thickened  into  night,  save  when  a  flash 
Of  lurid  lightning  clave  some  mountain  ash. 
May  Heaven  preserve,  cried  I,  that  lovely  pair. 
But,  as  I  spoke,  a  shriek  of  wild  despair, 
A  cry  of  mingled  horror  burst  without, 
Amid  the  raging  storm's  tumultuous  shout. 
I  hastened  to  the  spot,  but  ah  1  too  late  I 
No  human  power  could  change  the  dreadful  fate. 
High  on  a  towering  crag  Teresa  stood. 
Swayed  to  and  fro  as  roll'd  the  impetuous  flood. 
"My  child  I  my  boy!  she  cried,  O  stop  the  stream  t 
What!  lost!     It  cannot  be,  'tis  but  a  dreanL 
Just  now  on  yonder  ledge  of  rocks  we  stood — 
But  where  is  he  f — I  faint ! — my  child  I — ra3'  God  I  " 
Her  trembling  arms  in  air  she  wildly  threw. 
Then  plunged  into  the  flood  and  sank — adieo. 


VIEW  OF  THE  MIND  RELEASED  FROM  MATTER. 

There  is  a  thoug 'it  that  springs  from  truths  innat«^ 
That  culture  cannot  form,  nor  mind  creat«; 
That  genius  never  drew  from  fancy's  mould, 
A  sense  of  latent  powers  that  must  unfold; 
Tliat  will  expand,  when  freed  from  matter  unid«^ 
To  roam  the  vast  domain  of  nature's  God. 
To  mind  thus  free  what  may  not  time  reveal  I 
For  error  cannot  now  the  truth  conceal. 
Infinity  she  grasps  through  time's  duration. 
And  solves  the  deep  enigmas  of  creation. 
Amazed,  she  soars  on  high,  while  'neath  her  whirl* 
The  whole  stdpendous  frame  of  clustering  worlda. 
What  ecstacy  of  soul !   wiiat  strains  of  love ! 
Now  burst  in  hymos  of  praise  to  God  above. 


340  BEAUTIES  OF  TUE  BLIND. 

From  eartli's  redeemed  ;  while  many  a  twinkling  thruQg 

Of  starry  worlds  augment  the  tide  of  song. 

But  now  she  hovers;  resting  on  those  beams 

Of  crystal  light,  that  bridge  affliction's  streams ; 

Those  tides  of  human  tears,  that  pit  of  woe, 

That  vortex  of  despair  in  which  they  flow, 

Sweeping,  as  their  floods  tumultuous  roll, 

Like  withered  leaves,  the  hopes  of  many  a  souL 

The  earth  she  sees  engulphed  in  moral  night, 

Nor  can  her  pitying  tears  obstruct  the  sight. 

Darkly  it  swings  arouijd  its  central  sun, 

While  red  with  human  gore  its  rivers'run.* 

Its  lofty  domes,  its  minarets,  its  towers, 

Rocked  to  and  fro,  as  roll  contending  powers. 

E'en  pestilence,  with  foul,  infectious  breath. 

Now  stalks  abroad,  a  parasite  of  death. 

Oppression's  hand  hath  bound  in  servile  chains. 

The  brothers,  ah!  of  those  who  hold  their  reins. 

And  with  iron  hand  hath  crushed  their  sacred  shrinei. 

And  robbed  e'en  hell  of  half  its  black  designs. 

Sighing  she  turns  to  seek  in  Eden's  bowers. 

Those  founts  of  joy  that  spring  from  beds  of  flowers , 

Laughing  as  th^ir  crj'stal  arms  entwine 

The  ripening  fruit  that  clusters  on  the  vine. 

And  sprinkling  with  golden  spray  like  floods     '  Ught» 

Howers  that  bloom  forever  fresh  and  bright. 


•raOUGHTS  ON  CREATION. 

Geologists  surmise. 

Nay,  prove  it  to  a  fraction. 

That  this  fair  earth  was  at  her  birth 

In  a  state  of  liquefaction ; 

But  that  nature  and  time  wrought  ra'any  a  chaug« 

ind  drew  fortL  objects  new  and  stranee. 


COLLECTED   POEMS.  341 

The  motion  on  her  axis, 

Produced  conglomeration ; 

And  soon  a  crust  of  rock  and  dust^ 

Was  formed  for  vegetation 

A  dent  in  this  shell  the  ocean  found. 

And  left  qiiite  bare  the  fertile  ground. 

The  seasons  went  and  came, 

But  left  no  fossil  time ; 

Though  herbs  and  trees,  and  flowera  and  Im««, 

And  mountains  that  towered  sublime, 

Appeared  on  the  face  of  the  infant  earth. 

And  to  many  a  fish  did  the  sea  give  birth. 

Meantime,  while  nature  toiled. 
Great  rivers  changed  their  beds; 
And  where  the  sea  was  wout  to  be, 
Tall  mountains  reared  their  heads. 
Reptiles  and  beasts  had  all  been  formed, 
And  the  air  with  birds  and  insects  swarmed. 

Yet  all  was  not  complete; 

The  lord  of  this  creation 

Was  not  yet  made  to  wield  the  spade. 

And  nurture  vegetation ; 

But  at  length  there  sprang  from  nature's  Iiaq^ 

The  crowning  work,  a  perfect  man. 

Thus,  science  contradicts 

Tl»e  words  of  insi>iration; 

For  Moses  says,  within  six  days 

God  finished  all  creation  ; 

The  heavens,  with  all  their  clustering  stari^ 

The  earth,  its  animals  and  flowers. 

That,  on  the  seventh  day, 

From  all  his  works  he  rested ; 

And  that  one,  of  seven,  might  Uiste  of  heaven. 

He  hallowed  it  and  blest  it; 

As  proof  that  these  were  days,  not  year*. 

The  evening  and  the  morn  appears. 


31  Si  BEAUTIES   OF   THE   BUND 

Yet  should  one  dare  to  question 
Tlie  primeval  earth's  fluidity, 
Geologists  would  sneer  and  hiss. 
And  call  it  sheer  stupidity : 
Tliese  scientific  men  of  letters 
Regard  themselves  as  Moses'  bettei-s. 


LOVE'S  CHAIN. 

Oh,  why  should  poets  dream  so  sadly  ? 

Hath  poesy  no  other  strain? 
Or  why,  misanthropes,  rave  so  madly. 

Can  hatred  break  love's  golden  chain  f 

Linked  to  the  brightest  hopes  we  cherish. 
It  vibrates  through  eternal  years ; 

But  broken,  every  ray  must  perish 
Amid  the  gloom  of  skeptic  fears. 

From  things  of  nature's  first  creation. 

To  orders  of  a  higher  mould ; 
From  eyes  that  beam  with  animation. 

And  hearts  that  throb  with  powers  untold ; 

From  world  to  luminous  world  extending. 
Unbroken  lies  love's  golden  chain  ; 

From  sphere  to  loftier  sphere  ascending, 
Till  heaven  ends  the  glittering  train. 

Dimly  it  skirts  hell's  dark  dominions, 
And  glimmers  on  the  verge  of  night; 

And  now  upborne  on  seraph's  pinioua, 
It  melts  in  heaven's  purest  light 


OOLLECTKD   POEMS.  8i3 


TWILIGHT  SHADOWa 

Twilight  BhadowB  thick  were  flying. 
Like  the  leaves  of  autumn  sighing, 

Sighing  as  they  fall; 
Sprites  with  bat-like  wings -distended. 
Brushed  the  lamps  that  hung  depended 

From  night's  dusky  wall 

Winds,  that  all  the  day  had  rustled 
Through  the  leafy  groves,  now  bustled 

*  Blustering  o'er  the  plains. 
Midnight  gloom  was  creeping  o'er  me. 
As  the  lamp  burned  dim  before  me. 

Fitfully  it  waned. 

Mournfully  the  windows  clattered. 
While  without  the  rain-drops  pattered. 

Pattering  evermore; 
Coals  upon  the  grate  were  glowing. 
But  with  wild,  strange  light  were  throwing 

Shadows  on  the  floor. 

Ore  by  one  I  saw  them  dying, 
Ci ambling  and  in  ashes  lying. 

Tinkling  as  they  fell ; 
So,  thought  I,  if  all  we  cherish. 
Like  these  fading  embers,  perish, 

•  What  can  break  Fate's  spell  I 

lltuB,  if  every  pure  emotion 
Sink  in  passion's  boundless  ocean, 

Fatliomless  and  drear. 
How  shall  every  holy  feeling 
Melt  in  christian  light,  revealing 

Cordials  for  each  feftrt 

Softly  o'er  my  brow  were  playing 
Breezes,  while  a  voice  seemed  saying 
Jesus  is  tlie  way  ; 


344  BEAUl  KS   OF   THE    BLLNr>. 

Morning  shall  dispel  thy  sadnesS) 
As  the  birds,  with  songs  of  gladnesa^ 
Welcome  in  the  day. 

So  shall  faith  unbar  hope's  prison 
When  the  sun  of  truth  is  risen, 

Setting  conscience  free; 
Mind  shall  soar  on  buoyant  pinions. 
Scanning  nature's  vast  dominions. 

Through  e-ernity. 


A  FABLE. 

^In  olden  time,"  tradition  says, 

"When  Charity  was  young, 

A  squad  of  philanthropic  fliep. 

Of  every  caste  and  tongue, 

Assembled  on  the  bright  green  glad<j^ 

With  circumspect  intention. 

Beneath  a  palm  tree's  spreading  slisdi* 

In  general  convention. 

A  dignitary  filled  the  chair, 

With  parchment,  scrip  and  scrib^ 

A.cd  many  a  delegate  was  there, 

From  every  buzzing  tribe. 

A  worthy  sage,  with  numerous  eyea^ 

And  legs  of  great  dimension. 

Arose,  and  in  the  following  wise, 

A.ddressed  the  said  convention. 

"Most  excellent  sir,  and  worthies  all^ 

Tlie  speaker  thus  began, 

♦'  Our  tyrants,  ever  since  the  fall 

That  so  perverted  man, 

Tiiat  threw  all  nature  out  of  gear. 

Have  tried  their  subtlest  arts. 

To  see  how  they  could  best  ensnar* 

The  victim  of  their  sports 


COLLECTED   POEMS.  34fl 

Our  flesh  and  blood  too  long  hare  b«eD 

A  staple  of  their  food. 

And  now  'tis  time  that  we  begin 

To  seek  each  other's  good; 

To  rescue  from  the  iron  heel 

Of  tyranny  our  brothers. 

To  make  our  vile  oppressors  feel 

That  we  are  good  as  others- 

For  this  most  holy  cause  we're  met^ 

In  this  secluded  place. 

To  take  some  measures  requisite 

To  guard  our  injured  race. 

These  ugly,  sprawling  monsters  wear* 

Their  webs  in  every  hole. 

Where  they  suspect  or  half  believe 

A  fly  is  like  to  crawl ; 

Then  in  some  corner  lie  in  wait. 

Till  one  comes  peeping  in. 

When,  oh  I  'tis  horrid  to  relate, 

The  bloody  monsters  spin 

Their  tangled  webs  around  him  fast, 

Regardless  of  his  groans , 

Then  with  a  fiendish  grin  at  laitt^ 

They  pi«k  his  quivering  bones. 

Arise    ye  patriots,  break  your  chaina, 

And  say  we  will  be  free  I 

A  vict'ry  shall  reward  our  pains; 

To  arms    'tis  fate's  dei-ree  I  " 

The  stamping  of  countless  feet  decUr'd 

That  willing  hearts  were  found. 

While  a  wondron^  buzeing  till'd  the  air 

For  many  rods  arouud. 

Speaker.     "They  say  they  have  a  natural  right 

To  trap  the  thievish  fly. 

That  justice,  always  yields  to  might: 
{A  votrt.)     "The  villains  11a." 


546  BEAUTIES  OF  THE  BLIND. 

Speaker.     "  They  say  we're  all  such  pilfering  things 
Tliat  mankind  think  us  asses, 
Because  we  dip  our  filthy  wings," 
{A  voice.)     "  In  their  molasses." 

Speaker.     *•  They  say  the  Fates  did  not  design 
That  we  should  e'er  be  free. 
That  they  have  organs  more  refined, 
And  whiter  blood  than  we. 
They  think  us  low  and  worthless  curs, 
Not  worth  an  altercation : 
Brothers,  my  blood  with  anger  stirs, 
And  fury's  indignation. 
Their  boasts  are  all  a  p'ack  of  lies, 
And  most  consummate  knavery  ; 
With  death,  we  will  not  compromise, 
Nor  covenant  with  slavery. 
Therefore,  I  offer,  noble  sirs, 
A  list  of  resolutions. 
With  which  my  heart  in  full  concurs. 
But  wait  your  wise  conclusions :" 

"preamble. 

"  Inasmuch  as  liberty  is  not  an  especial  but  common  right. 
Not  an  inheritance,  but  a  universal  birth-right, — 
Neither  a  creature  of  chance,  nor  confer'd  by  fate 
Since  from  man  to  the  beetle,  and  from  the  cricket  to  the  n.ite 
All  living  things  'neath  the  sun,  and  the  twinkling  ey      oi 

night. 
Are  made  of  the  same  free  elements  increate. 
Therefore,  resolved,  that  the  fly  shall  be  free 
To  roam  where  he  pleases,  o'er  land  and  sea  • 
To  sport  on  the  beams  of  the  common  sun. 
Or  on  the  lake's  bright  mirror'd  bosom  to  run. 
Second,  resolved,  that  each  flower  and  tree, 
Was  made  for  the  spider,  as  well  as  the  bee ; — 
That  insects  should  feed  on  the  green  leaves  of  wood. 
And  not  slay  each  other,  f(  r  pleasure  or  food. 


COrXKOTKD   POEMS.  347 

Thirdly  and  lastly,  resolved,  that  we  force 
Our  blood-thirsty  tyrants  to  this  wise  resource  ; 
To  spend  the  hright  summer  on  some  cool,  green  tr««, 
And  through  the  cold  winter,  lie  torpid  .'ike  we." 

Unce  more  the  pattering  of  couut!e«8  feet 
A.nd  general  a<;clamation. 
Declared  all  plans  were  now  complete. 
And  met  with  approbation. 

At  this,  a  troop  of  dragon-flies^ 

With  loud  vociferation. 

Arose,  and  looking  wondrous  wise, 

Denounced  all  agitation. 

"We  may  not  hope  to  change,"  said  they, 

"  What  nature  hath  decreed. 

That  some  were  formed  for  slavery, 

Is  evidenced  indeed." 

Another  gang,  with  galaxies    . 

Of  eyes  like  constellations,  # 

Stook  up  and  said :  "'tis  better,  sirs. 

To  stop  these  agitations. 

They'll  only  lead  to  civil  strife. 

And  more  insidious  trappings. 

By  which  we'll  lose  more  precious  lifa^ 

Than  years  of  such  kidnapping. 

Besides,  'tis  not  the  better  class. 

Whose  natural  rights  are  questioae'l. 

But  only  a  low,  ignoble  race. 

Who  were  for  this  predestin'd. 

However  much  we  may  abhor 

This  barbarous  institution. 

We  shudder  at  the  thought  of  war. 

And  dread  of  dissolution. 

We,  therefore,  cannot  recommend 

So  hazardous  a  position  ; 

Our  boast  of  equal  rights  would  end 

At  last'in  tame  submission. 


348  BEAU'HES    OF   THE    BLrNl>. 

The  weak  should  alwajs  yielJ  to  mit;ht. 

The  simple  to  the  wise. 

The  spider,  therefore,  deems  it  right 

To  trap  defenseless  flies. 

Let  those  whom  nature's  hand  hath  fitted. 

To  serve  this  humble  end. 

Be  not  by  fiery  zealots  pitted 

To  impiously  contend 

Against  ther  fate,  in  bold  defiance 

Of  nature  and  her  laws ; 

Worthies  refrain  from  all  alliance 

With  80  unjust  a  cause. 

Philanthropists  should  never  aim. 

By  hostile  demonstration. 

To  add  fresh  fuel  to  a  flame, 

In  view  of  amelioration. 

The  en  J  can  never  sanctify 

Unholy  means  employed. 

The  law  embraces  man  and  fly. 

And  naught  can  make  it  void. 

We,  therefore,  totally  deprecate 

L^  forms  of  intervention  ; 

ho  allied  powers  can  baffle  fate. 

Or  thwart  her  fix'd  intention. 

Once  more,  we  would  reiterate 

Our  dragon  friends'  suggestion. 

Let  no  one  daie  to  agitate 

Again  tbitj  oaugerous  question. 

May  gentle  y^eace,  while  yonder  soo 

Briuys  life  and  warmth  with  day. 

Shine  ')'e)  Our  paths,  where'er  we  run, 

And  rule  omr  destiny." 

Thus  spake  this  cow'ring,  servile  crew, 
'Gainst  freedom's  holy  cause  ; 
And  then  exultingly  withdrew, 
'Mid  rapturous  applause. 
Resistless  roU'd  this  mighty  flood 
Of  suasive  eloquence, 


OOLLECTED   POEMS.  :^49 

While  from  the  assembled  multitnae. 

Arose  tee  nceek  response: 

May  gentle  peace,  while  yonder  sun. 

Brings  life  and  warmth  with  day. 

Shine  o'er  our  paths,  where'er  we  run. 

And  rule  our  destiny. 

'Twas  plain  the  wind  had  tuned  her  pipea 

To  quite  a  different  air; 

And  they  who  would  not  dance  to  stripea, 

Must  follow  the  tune,  'twas  clear. 

E'en  liberty's  most  ardent  friends, 

Seera'd  favorably  impressed. 

And  at  last,  to  gain  some  private  end. 

Most  cordially  acquiesced. 

«  . 
•The  public  weal  demands,"  said  they, 
"Some  honorable  concession : 

Let's  give  at  least  to  tyranny 

A  peaceable  possession. 

Our  only  sacrifice  will  be 

A  weak  and  worthless  tribe. 

And  by  this  compromise,  you  see, 

Her  boundaries  we'll  prescribe. 

We  hate  these  mad  enthusiasts, 

Who  urge  emancipation. 

Without  respect  to  grade  or  cast« : 

Away  with  agitation. 

Its  tendency  has  ever  been. 

The  captive's  bonds  to  tighten. 

By  precept  we  may  hope  to  win,— 

Example  may  enlighten. 

Let  each  discordant  note  be  tuned, 

And  let  thi«  strife  be  ended  ; 

Time  oft  hath  healed  a  deeper  wound.— 

A  wider  breach  hath  mendetL 

Let  every' web  that  spiders  spin. 

To  trap  their  harmless  neighbor, 

Be  shunned  as  their  besetting  sin, 

And  drive  these  knarea  to  labor." 


350  BEAUTIES   OF   THE   BLIND. 


A  FRAGMENT. 

There  is  a  time,  when  yet  the  mind  is  new^ 
That  thoughts  half-fledged  go  forth  on  feeble  wing 

And  poised  in  ether,  much  bewildered,  view 
Through  fancy's  glass,  the  gliding  forms  that  spring 

From  unseen  hands,  to  float  awhile  in  air, 
Then  like  the  melting  mists  at  early  dawn, 

Give  place  to  brighter  forms  of  beauty  rare. 
That  ages  past  from  mystery  have  drawn. 

Oh,  faithful  time  !  what  progeny  is  thine  1 
The  universe  appeared  at  thy  decree ; 

But  who  made  thee,  thou  Artisan  divine! 
Self-made,  thoy  art,  from  all  eternity. 
Presumptuous  thoughts,  abortions  of  the  mind. 

Of  sickly  birth,  and  creatures  of  a  day.  » 

How  vain,  to  scan  what  God  himself  designed. 

And  call  his  perfect  work  Time's  progeny. 
Blind  Fate  \  did'st  thou,  through  ever-during  dark. 

Grope  o'er  the  elements  that  formed  this  world. 
And  strike  from  chaos  first  the  electric  spark. 

That  lit  up  space  where  mad  confusion  whirled! 
Crude  matter  sublimed,  and  rolling  nebulae 

Which  time  hath  since  reduced  to  radiant  suns, 
And  from  the  foam,  hath  formed  a  galaxy, 

That  through  high  heaven's  expanse  unbroken  ruiu. 


REFLECTIONS  IN  YOUTH. 

One  summer's  morn,  as  I  strolled  along. 
With  heart  as  free  as  the  lark's  gay  song. 
Plucking  the  wild  sweet  flowers,  that  grew 
Where  the  maples  their  soft,  deep  shadows  threi 
I  thought  as  I  kissed  from  their  glossy  leaves 
The  crystal  dew,  how  much  there  breathes 
»n  nature  of  true  piety, 
Of  love,  and  deep  hurailitf. 


COLLECTED   POEMS.  351 

Through  every  fabric  that  Nature  weaves 

From  the  simple  fern,  with  its  drooping  leaves, 

To  the  giant  oak  that  defies  the  blast, 

(Yet  meekly  bends  as  the  gales  sweep  past,) 

From  the  clinging  vine,  that  darkly  crawls 

'Mong  ruined  towers  and  broken  walls, 

That  sigh  as  the  night  winds  whisper  of  eld — 

Of  deeds  that  the  darkness  hath  not  yet  told ; 

Of  impious  man,  who  so  sadly  fell. 

And  made  of  this  bright  fair  earth  a  hell. 

No  I  not  of  the  earth,  'tis  the  soul  within 

Tliat  makes  for  itself  a  world  of  sin. 

The  world  without  is  a  joyous  one, 

Busy  and  bright,  'neath  a  glorious  sun. 

From  age  remote,  o'er  a  boundless  waste. 

Through  the  path  of  time  this  thread  is  traoed  * 

Weaving  the  stars  in  a  robe  of  lights 

To  clothe  in  beauty  the  silent  night; 

A  chord  of  love  and  sympathy. 

That  vibrates  through  eternity. 

Of  such,  the  angel  harps  were  stinng. 

When  heaven's  celestial  choirs  sung, 

All  glory,  honor,  and  power  be  given, 

To  Him  who  reigns  in  earth  and  heaven. 


THE  VOYAGE  OF  LIFE  — A  SONG. 

How  rights  the  ship,  when  the  world  goes  merrily. 
When  sweet  success  crowns  every  wish  ; 

Bi-ight  beams  the  sun,  and  the  birds  sing  cheerily. 
When  showers  of  plenty  fill  our  disk 

How  rights  the  ship,  as  her  sails  catch  greedily 
Each  prosperous  wind  that  kindly  blows. 

Gaily  sings  the  crew,  when  she  glides  on  speedily, 
O'er  life's  deep  sea  so  sweet  in  repoe**. 


352  CKAUTIES   OF  THE  BLLND. 

Night  holds  his  watch  'neath  a  cloudless  canopy,— 
With  hanging  lamps  o'er  the  bright  sea's  crest, 

Till  young  morning  spreads,  like  a  golden  panoply, 
A  flood  of  day  o'er  its  glassy  breast. 

Sparkling  like  dew-drops  distilled  on  sweet  violet*, 

Life's  sea  of  light  unruffled  lies; 
A.way  darts  the  ship  o'er  the  silvery  breast  of  it, 

Her  white  sails  spread  to  the  breeze,  she  flies. 

Morning  hath  op'd  those  golden  eyes  of  hers, 
But  scarce  one  glance  o'er  the  world  hath  shone 

When  far  to  the  west  a  gathering  cloud  appears. 
Gleaning  the  darkness  that  night  had  strown. 

Uow  tosses  the  ship  when  the  world  goes  crabbedlj 
When  storms  of  deep  affliction  rise  I 

Loud  shrieks  the  blast  as  the  waves  roll  rapidly, 
Till  hope  amid  the  tumult  dies. 


LINES  WRITTEN  ON  THE  FIRST  OF  APRIL,  ISS9 

If  nature  sanctions  all  the  rules 
That  govern  wind  and  weather. 

Then,  by  her  we  are  all  made  fools, 
And  April  fools  together. 

^  T  when  Aurora  raised  the  vail 
That  shades  old  Sol's  complexion, 

A  cloudless  sky  his  coming  hailed. 
Nor  raised  one  slight  objection. 

The  birds  rejoiced  to  see  the  eye 

Of  morning  beam  so  gladly ; 
But  ere  the  day  had  fleeted  by, 

They,  too,  were  fooled  most  sadly. 


COLLECTED   POEMS.  35«i 

llje  prince  of  that  mysterious  power 

That  keeps  the  ocean  stewing, 
Despatched  a  sprite  at  midnight  hour. 

To  set  a  storm  a-brewing. 

And  sure  enough,  it  came  blust'ring  od 

From  snow-crowned  Allegliany ; 
And  though  the  morning  brightly  dawned. 

The  day  was  cold  and  rainy. 

So  round  the  cradle  often  beams 

Bright  rays  of  hope  and  gladness; 
But  oh,  how  changed  are  childhood's  dreamy 

When  age  brings  scenes  of  sadness. 

A  prosperous  sun  may  set  at  noon. 

And  leave  the  future  hazy, 
^  fickle  freak  of  fortune  soon 

May  drive  a  mortal  crazy. 


A  LEGEND. 

In  Jersey  there  lived,  as  I  have  been  told. 

When  science  was  yet  in  its  shell, 
A  worthy  old  Dutchman,  who  oifered  much  gold 

To  any  wise  man  who  could  tell 

Aow  to  urive  from  his  cellar  a  troublesome  witvk. 

Who  nightly  disturbed  his  repose, 
By  leading  him  forth  o'er  thorn-hedge  and  ditch. 

By  a  ring  made  fast  in  his  no^e. 

*So  droubled  am  I,"  said  our  hero  one  day, 
"Tat  I'd  giff  de  pest  boss  in  me  pam. 

To  any  old  wizard  tat  may  dravel  tis  vay. 
For  to  trive  tia  old  hog  from  me  varm. 


354  BEAUTIES   QV   THE   BLIND. 

"  My  cal8  tey  run  vild,  my  cows  tey  run  try, 

No  putter  my  voman  can  make  ; 
My  pees  leave  de  hives,  my  gattles  dey  dies, 

No  gomfort  at  all  can  I  dake.' 

One  evening  when  all  had  retired  to  bed 

And  left  the  old  man  in  his  chair, 
He  sighed  as  the  darkness  grew  thicker,  and  said, 

"  Ic J.  wold  garn  ins  bet  ga  won  ich  darf." 

But  the  old  mansion  shook  with  a  November  gale. 
Dread  spectres  were  stalking  without, 

And  howl'd  through  each  crevice  the  horrible  tale 
That  Mynheer  was  thinking  about. 

Dense  wreaths  of  tobacco  smoke  curled  round  his  heao 
While  the  old  kitchen  clock,  that  for  years 

Had  measured  each  moment  of  time  as  it  sped 
Tick'd  louder  to  banish  his  fears. 

But  the  darkness  grew  thicker,  the  candle  burnt  blue, 

A  sulphurous  smell- filled  the  room. 
While  the  tumult  without  waxed  fiercer,  as  grew 
'  The  clock  face  more  pale  in  the  gloom. 

While  Van  Hochtail  thus  mused  (for  that  was  his  name) 

The  clock  in  the  corner  tolled  one; 
The  candle  went  out,  when  a  fit  seized  his  frame 

And  he  thought,  sure  the  devil  is  come. 

The  door  was  thrown  open,  a  figure  rushed  in, 

A  bellowing  sound — then  a  crash ; 
All  consciousness  fled,  while  away  on  the  wind 

The  Dutchman  was  borne  in  a  flash. 

The  whole  of  that  nighty  in  the  form  of  a  horse. 

He  scoured  the  country  around. 
With  a  witch  on  his  back,  as  a  matter  of  course, 

And  not  until  morning  he  found 


COLLECTED   hOEMS.  355 

Himself  in  his  chair,  his  hat  in  his  han^ 

His  pipe  and  his  wig  on  the  floor; 
The  storm  had  passed  off,  the  morning  was  c1«»r 

And  the  clock  tick'd  on  as  before. 


THE  HARPER. 

RBSPKOIFOLLT    DEDfCATED   TO    MESSRS.    HALL   AND   ARTMAIi 
BY    KRANOES   1.    0R08BT. 

Oh,  speak  not  harshly  to  the  humble  poor, 
Nor  chide  the  wanderer  that  with  trembling  hand 
Taps  at  your  door,  and  in  a  feeble  voice, 
Choked  with  emotion,  asks  a  simple  crust, 
Which  human  sympathy  could  not  deny. 
Ye  little  know  the  wrongs  that  heart  hath  borne; 
The  bitter  anguish  that  hath  rudely  crushed 
It«  best  affections.     Nature  is  but  weak ; 
And  though  it  long  may  patiently  endure. 
May  struggle  hard  to  bear  its  toilsome  lot, 
Yet  there  are  moments  when  the  aching  breast, 
Kobb'd  of  its  dearest  hopes  and  brightest  joys. 
Feels  like  itself  a  burden,  and  would  fain 
Breathe  its  last  sigh,  and  sleep  its  last  long  sleeps 
The  golden  sun  had  set,  and  the  blue  sky. 
Yet  beautiful  with  rich  crimson  tints, 
That  softly  lingered  on  its  azure  breast, 
Seemed  wooing  nature  to  a  sweet  repose. 
Calm  and  serene  the  evening  star  looked  forth. 
As  if  to  chant  His  praise  who  gave  her  birth; 
All,  all  was  lovely;  'twas  the  hallowed  hour 
When  memory  whispers  of  long-absent  ones. 
And  bear*  us  back  to  days  and  years  gone  by. 
A  weary  man,  whose  form  was  bent  with  age. 
Whose  silver  locks  were  floating  on  the  breex*. 
That  seemed  to  pity  as  it  passed  him  by. 
Had  turned,  dejected,  from  the  busy  throng. 
And  with  a  look  which  might  have  moved  a  heart 
Of  adamant,  was  wending  his  Io:ie  way 


356  BEAUTTES   OF   THE    BLIND. 

Towards  his  humble  cottage.     All  day  long 

Through  crowded  streets  his  wild  harp  he  had  borns^ 

And  o'er  and  o'er  its  rustic  aire  had  plaj^ed, 

To  those  who  heeded  not,  till,  sick  at  hearty 

When  the  dim  shadows  of  the  twilight  came, 

He  gathered  up  his  scanty  pittance,  and 

Covering  his  face  with  his  shriveled  hand. 

He  wept,  not  for  himself,  but  for  his  child. 

Within  a  drear  and  comfortless  abode. 

On  a  rude  couch,  a  gentle  girl  reclined; 

Her  cheek  was  pale  as  marble,  and  her  eye 

Turned  ever  and  anon,  with  restless  glance, 

Toward  the  open  casement     Hark!  'tis  he! 

She  faintly  murmured,  while  a  placid  smile 

O'erspread  her  pallid  features.     Yes  ;  'tis  he ; 

My  father!     And  the  old  man  slowly  bent       _ 

O'er  that  loved  form,  and  pressed  his  lips  to  hers. 

There  was  a  change,  a  sad  and  fearful  change, 

Since  he  had  left  her  at  the  early  morn ; 

And  he  felt  that  the  icy  hand  of  death 

Was  at  her  heart.     'T  was  more  than  he  could  bear. 

My  child,  he  said,  the  etaffof  my  old  age. 

How  can  I  lose  thee?     Thou  wert  all  to  me; 

And  who  will  comfort  me  when  thou  art  gone! 

God  will  protect  thee,  (was  the  quick  responsCj^ 

Father  1  she  paused  for  breath,  then  suddenly, 

As  if  a  light  had  burst  upon  her  soul, — 

Father,  ere  from  the  world  and  thee  I  part, 

There  is  a  secret  I  would  fain  disclose. 

Dost  thou  remember  Rodolph?     At  that  name 

She  slightly  trembled,  but  her  voice  grew  calm 

As  she  proceeded:    Near  our  happy  cot,  my  childhood  home. 

There  was  a  shady  nook,  o'erhung  with  woodbines  and  th« 

evergreen. 
And  there  at  eve,  with  Rodolph  by  my  side. 
While  the  light  zephyrs  with  their  silken  wings. 
Fanned  the  sweet  flowers  that  slept  beneath  our  feet, 
I  listened  to  the  gentle  words  he  breathed. 
He  sought  my  hand — my  heart  had  long  been  his; 


COLLECTED   POEMS.  357 

But  my  mother  from  thine  arms  waa  torn, 

And  laid  beneath  the  cold  and  silent  tomb. 

I  felt  'twere  wrong  to  leave  thee  thus  alone. 

Yet,  Rodolph  was  unchanged ;  and  when  the  storms 

Of  adverse  fortune  drove  us  from  our  home. 

To  seek  a  shelter  in  a  foreign  clime, 

I  saw  the  tear-drop  gather  in  his  eye ; 

He  clasped  my  hand  convulsively  in  his, 

And  whispered,  "Ella,  thou  shalt  yet  be  mine."       , 

Three  long  and  weary  years  since  then  have  passed. 

And  he  perchance  ere  this  hath  wooed  and  won 

A  lovelier  maiden.     Oh,  how  I  have  prayed 

And  struggled  to  forget  him,  but  in  vain. 

Bhe  ceased.     The  old  man  with  attentive  ear 

Had  listened  to  the  long  suspected  cause 

Of  that  deep  sorrow,  which  too  well  he  knew 

Had  nipp'd  the  rose-bud  in  its  tender  bloom. 

And  doomed  his  idol  Lo  an  early  grave. 

Oh,  what  a  sacrifice,  he  groaned  aloud : 

God  bless  thee,  Ella;  I  have  ill  repaid 

A  love  so  holv  and  so  pure  as  thine. 

"Twas  then  a  traveler  on  his  jaded  steed 

Paused  at  that  dwelling,  and  in  breatiiiess  hast* 

Flew  up  the  narrow  staircase;  hope  and  fear 

Alternate  whispering  to  his  anxious  heart. 

The  old  man's  last  words  fell  upon  his  ear  : 

It  is  enough,  he  cried;  thank  heaven  she  lives  I 

And  springing  forward,  in  his  trembling  arms 

He  clasped  that  dying  girl,  now  but  the  wreck 

Of  what  he  once  had  deemed  so  beautiful. 

It  was  too  late.     One  Icmg  and  lingering  g«z« 

From  'hose  deep  eyes  of  mild  ethereal  blue. 

And  with  her  head  pillowed  upon  his  breast, 

And  his  dear  name  upon  her  quivering  lip. 

Her  gentle  spirit  passed  from  earth  away. 

With  scarce  a  sigh  to  tell  that  she  had  goo*. 


838  BKAUTIKS   OF   THE   BLLND. 


AUTUMN. 


BY    MISS    MAUUARET    BELCHES, 

Of  the  Indiana  Institution  for  the  Blind.*  ' 

I  come,  I  come,  o'er  valley  and  hill, 
Casiin^  a  shaile  o'er  the  sparkling  rill. 
Stripping  the  Uavea  from  each  quivering  bough, 
Strewing  my  patli>iray  as  onward  I  go. 

The  tree  of  the  forest,  ihe  grass  of  the  plain, 
Submissively  bow  to  oiy  despotic  reign  ; 
The  flow'rets  that  bloom  in  the  garden  and  heath. 
All  wither  and  droop  at  the  touch  of  my  breath. 

1  come  not  as  spring  with  ite  gifts  profuse. 
Decking  the  earth  with  its  gorgeous  hues; 
Scattering  blossoms  like  glittering  gems. 
More  precious  than  those  of  earth  8  diadems. 

The  hum  of  the  insect,  the  song  of  the  bird, 
No  more  in  the  glades  of  the  forest  nre  heard; 
Though  silent  I  tread,  yet  my  footprints  are  seen 
In  the  withering  herbage  wherever  I've  beeu. 

1  come  not  as  spring,  with  its  long  sunny  hours. 
Decking  the  earth  with  its  verdure  and  flowers; 
I  come  to  forewarn  the  mortal  who  clings 
To  the  perishing  phantom  of  temporal  things. 

I  come  to  admonish  the  children  of  clay, 
To  turn  from  a  world  of  death  and  decay; 
To  seek  for  a  portion  more  lasting  and  sure. 
In  the  laud  of  t)ie  blest,  the  just,  and  the  pare. 

•  It  maj-  be  interesting  to  the  reader,  to  know  that  this  authoress  dictB(e<l  h« 
;»oetns  to  a  deaf  and  damb  sister,  her  usual  amanuensis,  by  means  of  the  msuual 
«lpbii>)et 


OOLLECIED    POKM8.  3r,9 

Where  the  smile  of  the  Lord  is  his  people's  delight, 
Where  the  soul  is  untouched  by  a  canker  or  blight; 
Where  the  heart's  best  affections  forever  shall  bloom. 
Beyond  the  dark  valley  of  death  and  the  tomb. 


THE  DYING  SI8TEK. 

BT  MARGARET  BKLCUIM. 

Sisterl  I'm  going  home;  a  voice  of  love, 

In  dreams  <va8  gently  murmured  in  my  ear. 
Like  angel  whispers,  echo'd  from  above. 

It  bade  me  haste  from  all  that  binds  me  here ; 
Sweet,  as  of  plaintive  musio  soft  and  Kiw— 
Sister,  oh  let  me  go  I 

They  stood  around  my  bed  a  shining  baud, 
Aud  on  their  heavenly  pinions  far  away 
They  bore  me  swiftly  to  a  radiant  land — 
To  realms  of  endless  bliss  aud  cloudless  day ; 

There  flowers  of  fadeless  beauty  sweetly  blow- 
Sister,  oh  let  me  got 

Bright  was  the  starry  pathway  that  we  trod. 

Surpassing  fair  the  scenes  that  met  our  eyes; 
Countless  the  hosts  before  the  throne  of  God, 
In  that  fair  world  of  peace  beyond  the  skies; 
And  music  filled  the  air  in  ceaseless  flow— > 
Sister,  oh  let  me  go  I 

I  saw  them,  too,  the  loved,  the  lost  of  earth. 

The  cherished  ones  who  watclied  our  infant  3' ««■'*, 
Who  smiled  upon  us  in  our  hours  of  mirth. 

Whose  soothing  words  oft  checked  our  rising  tears; 
The}'  smiled  on  me  as  none  now  smile  below— 
Sister,  oh  let  me  go  ! 


360  KEA.UTIE8   OF   THE   BLINI>. 

Our  sister,  too,  was  there  with  radiant  brow. 

She  of  the  sunny  smile  and  dove-like  eye, 
The  beautiful  on  earth,  far  lovelier  now, 
Arrayed  in  light  and  immortality ; 

She  whispered  come,  in  heavenly  acceata  low — 
Sister,  oh  let  me  go! 

And  he  was  there,  the  wanderer  from  the  fold. 

For  whom  so  oft  in  agony  we  prayed ; 
But  on  his  brow  no  stain  of  earthly  mould. 
Not  as  on  earth,  in  sin's  dark  vestures  'rayed ; 

His  shining  robes  were  white  as  spotless  snow- 
Sister,  oh  let  me  go ! 

Death's  seal  is  set  upon  this  fevered  brow, 

O'er  these  dim  eyes  the  gathering  shadows  come ; 
Heaven's  zephyrs  seem  to  play  around  me  now, 
And  woo  me  to  my  far-off  distant  home ; 

None  view  such  scenes  and  longer  dwell  helow- 
Sister  farewell,  I  gol 


THE  FOREST  TREE. 


BT  IIAROARET  BELCHES. 


Tree  of  the  forest,  gigantic  and  old, 

What  ages  unreck'd  of  have  over  thee  rolled; 

Oh,  could'st  thou  but  tell  us  each  varying  scene 

That  long  since  has  passed  'neath  thy  branches  of  green 

Thou  hast  seen  the  glad  summer  in  beauty  approach. 
And  the  woods  wake  in  smiles  at  her  magical  touch. 
When  the  soft  wind  swept  over  the  delicate  flowei"8, 
Fresh  laden  with  sweets  from  the  tropical  bowers. 


COLLECTED   POEm5.  361 

Thou  hast  shivered  and  tossed  in  the  whirlwind's  hla«t. 
And  seen  thy  companions  uptorn  as  it  pass'd; 
And  still  thou  art  rearing  thy  old  rugged  form. 
To  smile  on  the  summer  and  frown  ou  the  storm. 

The  king  of  the  forest,  long,  long  hast  thou  stood, 
Tlie  pride  of  the  desert  and  vast  solitude, 
Ere  the  step  of  tJie  white  man  the  wilderness  stirred. 
Or  his  sharp  ringing  axe  in  the  forest  was  heard. 

In  days  long  gone  by,  how  often  perchance. 
Hast  thou  looked  on  the  Indians'  wild,  native  dance* 
Or  marked  the  deep  scowl  of  his  rod,  gleaming  eye, 
Ab  he  glared  on  his  victim,  and  doomed  him  to  die. 

Thou  hast  seen  the  pale  captive,  and  heard  his  wild  shriek, 
Which  told  of  the  anguish  that  words  might  not  speak, 
As  he  saw  through  tlie  darkness  the  red,  glaring  fire. 
And  knew  while  he  gazed  'twas  his  funeral  pyre. 

But  away  with  those  scenes  of  darkness  and  blood. 
Sweet  soundf  are  now  heard  in  thy  once  solitude; 
The  laughter  of  childhood  in  innocent  glee. 
Blends  sweet  with  the  husbandman's  song  on  the  lea. 

Perchance  thou  hast  seen  on  bright  summer  eves, 
When  the  zephyr  was  stirring  thy  dark,  glossy  leavei^ 
A  maiden  steal  forth  with  a  timorous  eye. 
And  a  lilush  on  her  cheek,  for  her  lover  was  nigh. 

And  there  she  has  listened  to  love's  magic  tone, 
Believing  his  heart  was  as  true  a»  her  own  ; 
But,  ainsi  she  was  seeking  an  undying  love^ 
Which  only  is  found  in  the  regions  abovcb 

The  wayworn  traveler  hails  with  delight 
The  mantling  shade  as  you  rise  on  his  sight 
And  sinks  to  repose  on  the  green  mtissy  bed 
Which  oft  in  his  chUdhtKid  has  pillowed  his  head. 


362  BEAUTIES  OF  THE  BLINP. 

Ho\7  solemn  to  think  of  the  thousands  of  earth, 
That  are  sleeping  in  death  since  first  thou  had'st  birtb . 
And  still  thou  art  waving,  majestic  and  frpe, 
The  monarch  of  ages,  the  old  Forest  Tree. 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  SEA.* 

BT    UAROARET    BELCHES. 

What  art  thou,  voice,  on  the  wild  winds  borne— 
•     Heard  'hove  the  shriek  of  the  furious  storm — 
Sweeoing  along  o'er  the  angry  surge, 
Like  the  strange,  wild  notes  of  a  funeral  dirge! 
Art  thou  a  spirit  foreboding  woe, 
Come  from  the  fathomless  depths  below  f 
For  the  laugh  is  hushed,  and  each  cheek  grows  pal  a, 
As  the  seaman  lists  to  thy  mournful  wail. 
Art  thou  come  to  tell  of  some  desolate  shore, 
Where  the  wild  waves  dash  and  the  breakers  roar — 
Of  the  whirlpool  nigh,  with  its  chambers  dark — 
The  tomb  of  many  a  gallant  bark  I 
Or,  perchance,  from  the  ocean's  gem-lit  caves, 
Thou  wert  weary  of  sport  'ueath  the  feathery  waves, 
Midst  the  unknown  tombs  where  the  sea  nymphs  fair, 
Tlieir  vigils  keep  o'er  the  sleepers  there ; 
Where  the  mermaid  wreathes  her  golden  curls 
With  crimson  coral  and  rarest  pearls; 
Where  the  naiads'  sweet,  low  melodies 
Resound  through  the  amber  palaces. 
But  why  art  thou  come  from  homes  like  these. 
To  rioat  'mid  the  tempests— child  of  the  seaa— 
When  the  sable  hue  of  the  night  is  spread. 
Like  a  funeral  pall,  o'er  the  voyager's  head — 

*  We  are  Infonned  by  navigators  that  strange  cries,  resembling  the  human  voiae 
Oftve  frequently  b^n  beard  far  out  at  sea,  the  causes  of  which  have  nersr  b«»B  sat- 
MMtorily  ezpUined. 


OOLLECTEO   POEMS.  368 

Where  no  ray  of  brightness  greets  the  sight* 
Save  the  curling  waves'  phosplioric  light* 
That  fearfully  on  the  billows  loom. 
Like  speutral  forms  amid  the  gloom  I 
Oh,  were  our  hearts  but  freed  from  sin. 
We  would  fear  thee  not  'mid  the  tempest's  din— 
We  would  welcome  thee  as  an  angel  voice, 
At  the  gates  of  the  Heavenly  Paradib,*\ 


•raOUGHTS  ON  NIAGARA. 

BT    MICBAEL    Ii'gCIIIE. 

f 

I  stood  where  swift  Niagara  pours  its  flood 
Into  the  darksome  caverns  where  it  falls, 
And  heard  its  voice,  as  voice  of  God,  proclaim 
The  power  of  Him,  who  let  it  on  its  course 
Commence,  with  the  green  earth's  first  creatioo; 
And  I  was  where  the  atmosphere  shed  teara^ 
As  giving  back  the  drops  the  waters  wept, 
On  reaching  that  great  sepulchre  of  floods, — 
Or  bringing  from  above  the  bow  of  God, 
To  plant  its  beauties  in  the  pearly  spray. 

And  as  I  stood  and  heard,  though  teeing  nought. 

Sad  thoughts  took  deep  possession  of  my  mind. 

And  rude  imagination  venturing  forth, 

Did  toil  to  pencil,  though  in  vain,  that  scene. 

Which,  in  its  every  feature,  spoke  of  God, 

Oh,  voice  of  nature  1  full  of  strength  and  awe;— 

Unceasing  sermon,  where  Omni|)oteno* 

Is  at  once  the  theme  and  illustration. 

0  thou  pervading  sound!  o'erwhelming  all 

With  vast  conceptions  of  might  intiuitel 

Hallow  my  inspirations,  and  subdue 

Whatever  in  me  jars  with  holy  thought 

Let  thy  loud  tones  speak  to  ray  inmost  toul. 

And  teach  it  ev«r  to  acknowledge  Ciud. 


364  BEAUITES   Oir  THE   BLIKD. 

Full  of  thyself,  great  flood,  how  vaia  the  taak 
To  tell  thy  might,  or  adeqimtely  know 
How  vast  thou  art, — so  very  small  are  we! 
If  such  the  thoughts  are  which  thy  voice  stirs  up, 
Then  what  the  awe  that  would  entrance  the  mind 
At  viewing  thy  dread  strength,  thy  power  sublime! 
Or  beauty  that  o'ertops  the  highest  range 
Of  boldest  fancy,  whose  most  lofty  flight 
Would  fall  beneath  thee  far,  and  much  abashed. 
Oh  place  most  sacred  I  full  of  awe  and  God . 
Where  every  sound,  and  all  that's  seen,  combine 
To  teach  our  minds  to  humbly  trust  in  Him, 
Whose  fiat  called,  and  who  sustains  the  world. 
O  spot  1  if  any  spot  on  earth  can  be 
■  A  temple,  where  Jehovah  is  felt  most, 
Raise  my  dejection,  and  enable  me 
To  speak  as  may  befit  thee  and  myself; 
And  teach  me  to  address,  in  proper  terms. 
Him,  for  whose  honor  thou  wast  form'd  to  flow, 
And  talk  forever  of  his  power  supreme. 
O  Thou,  that  givest  all  that  we  possess. 
Whose  might  is  infinite,  and  goodness,  too, 
Bend  to  my  voice  thy  always  ready  ear, 
And  hearing  grant,  0  grant  my  earnest  prayer, 
One  which  hj'jtoerisy  linth  ne'er  abused. 
Nor  has  been  by  the  drowsy  formalist 
The  verdant  earth  whicli  thou  hast  made, 
Tlie  sky  through  which  the  blazing  sun  dotli  ride, 
And  the  moon  with  her  large  train  make  progrew 
These  are  thy  works,  which  well  assert  thy  migh 
And  goodness,  and  addressing  us,  doth  speak 
Wherever  cultwe  rules  or  nature  reigns. 
Yet,  sight  of  sky,  of  sea,  or  of  the  earth. 
Of  wild  plant,  or  of  cultivated  flower, 
Of  quiet  lake  that  sleeps  in  loveliness. 
Wound  in  a  belt  of  perfect  solitude, — 
Of  streams  that  flow  contented  in  their  couraei 
And  leave  a  legacy  of  flowers  behind, — 
/*  not  to  me  vcncluafed, — nor  may  I  look 


OOLLEGTKD   POEMS.  86ft 

Upon  the  cataract's  unfett«r'd  rage, 

That  wildly  hurries  it  to  the  abyss, 

Which,  like  a  gap  in  nature,  waits  the  flood 

Which,  ever  rolling,  leaves  it  waiting  stilL 

Of  this,  imagination  tells  fllone  I 

Is  forced  to  copy,  oh,  how  faint  transcribe. 

Where  all- its  paintings  must  be  in  itself^ 

Nature's  designer,  and  her  artist,  too. 

For  me,  the  world  is  black,  and  filled  with  gloom; 

Huge  darkness  sits  recumbent  on  the  air, 

Oppressing  it  with  universal  night, 

And  making  melancholy  joys  supplant, 

Till  cheerfulness  removes  from  where  gloom  r*i^'<« 

Leaving  the  mind  a  prey  to  though  U  an  bleat 

And  here,  where  Thou  art  ever  felt  to  be. 

Where  nature  loudly  owns  Thee  as  her  Ood, 

Whose  praise  is  sounded  by  the  cataract, 

Hearken  to  me,  and  my  petition  hear. 

As  from  each  recess  of  my  struggling  soul. 

The  sighs  of  sickly  hope,  assembling  fast. 

Meet  in  a  perfect  flood  of  fervent  prayer, — 

Which  all  express'd  is  this, — Lord,  give  me  m^h*      • 

A  nd  that  to  long  unheard,  i*  unheard  ttilL 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  FALLING  LEAVHft 

BT    nUNCBB    BBOWN. 

A  friendless  Minstrel  walk'd  alone, 

Where  the  autumn  twilight  lay 
Cold  on  the  woods,  and  leaves  were  strewm 

By  thousands  in  his  way  : 
He  thought  of  the  promise-breathing  spring 

And  of  wimmer's  rosy  eves; 
And  he  said:  "Alas!  for  the  withering. 

And  the  time  of  falling  leaves  I  ** 


366  BEAUTIES   OF   THE   BLIND. 

The  music  of  bird  and  breeze  had  passed, 

From  the  woodlands,  hiish'd  and  dim^ 
But  there  came  an  answering  voice  at  last, 

From  the  dying  leaves  to  him  : 
And  it  said :  "  Oh  I  thou  of  the  sleepless  thou*  ht, 

lu  thy  musings  sad  and  lone, 
Weep  not  the  close  of  our  tearless  lot, 

But  rather  mourn  thine  own ; — 

^For  the  greenness  of  early  spring  was  ours. 

And  the  summer's  palmy  prime 
And  the  glowing  tints  that  deck'd  the  bowers 

In  the  glorious  harvest-time  I 
And  have  we  not  seen  the  roses  die  ?— 

For  their  splendors  might  not  stay  ; 
And  the  summer  birds  are  gone — then  why 

Should  not  leaves,  too,  pass  away  f 

"Yet  the  flowers  may  fade,  and  the  leaves  may  fall, 

And  the  gloryof  woods  depart ; 
But  mourn  in  thy  sorrow,  more  than  all. 

The  withering  of  the  heart ; 
And  the  soul's  3'oung  brightness  dimm'd  so  goon, 

'Twas  a  glory  early  o'er ; 
For  Time  hath  taken  that  blessed  boon-^ 

That  Time  can  ne'er  restore. 

"  And  mourn  for  life's  perish'd  hopes,  that  died 

While  the  spring  was  flowery  still ; 
For  the  stainless  love  which  the  grave  hath  hid, 

Tliough  it  could  not  change  nor  chill ; 
For  the  weary  eyes  that  have  look'd  for  light 

Which  never  met  their  gaze  ; 
And  for  all  who  have  lived  through  storm  and  blight. 

But  saw  no  summer  days." 

The  winds  in  their  lonely  power  awoke, 

As  the  night  came  darkly  on — 
And  the  voice  which  in  twilight  stillness  spoka, 

With  that  twilight  V'^ur  was  gone  ; 


OOLLBOTKD   POEMS.  S(J7 

"And  oh  I  "  said  the  minstrel,  " strange,  in  aooth, 

Are  the  spells  which  Fanc}*  weaves, 
For  now  she  has  given  a  voice  of  truth. 

To  the  fading,  falling  leaves !  " 


BIACKLOCK'a  PICTUEE  OF  HIMSELF. 

While  in  my  matchless  graces  wrapt  I  stand. 
And  touch  each  feature  with  a  trembling  hand. 
Deign,  lovely  self  1  with  art  and  nature's  prid«. 
To  mix  the  colors,  and  tlie  pencil  guide. 

Self  is  the  grand  pursuit  of  half  mankind ; 
How  vast  a  crowd  by  self,  like  me  are  blind  I 
By  self  the  fop  in  magic  colors  sliown. 
Though  scorned  by  every  eye,  delights  hi."  own; 
When  age  and  wrinkles  seize  the  conquering  m^d, 
Self,  not  the  glass,  reflects  the  flattering  shade. 
Then,  wonder-working  self,  begin  the  la}-; 
Thy  charms  to  others,  as  to  me,  display. 

Straight  is  my  person,  but  of  little  ate ; 
Lean  are  my  cheeks,  and*  hollow  are  my  ejea; 
My  3-outhful  down  is,  like  my  talents,  rare ; 
Politely  distant  stands  each  single  hair. 
My  voice,  too  rough  to  charm  a  lady's  ear ; 
So  smooth  a  child  may  listen  without  fear; 
No^  form'd  in  cadence  soft  and  warbling  lays, 
To  soothe  the  fair  through  pleasure's  wanton  ways 

My  form  so  fine,  so  regular,  so  new. 
My  port  so  manly,  and  so  fresh  my  hue  , 
Oft  as  I  meet  the  crowd,  they  laughing  say, 
"  See,  see  Memento  Mori  cross  the  way." 
Tlie  ravish'd  Proserpine,  at  last,  we  know. 
Grew  fondly  jealous  of  her  sable  beau  ; 
But,  thanks  to  nature,  none  from  me  need  fly. 
One  heart  the  devil  could  wound— ao  eannot  1. 


368 


BEAUTIES    OF  THE   liLINI>. 

Yet  though  my  person  fearless  may  be  seen. 
There  is  some  danger  in  my  graceful  mien  : 
For,  as  some  vessel,  tossed  by  wind  and  tide, 
Bounds  o'er  the  waves,  and  rocks  from  side  to  side 
lu  just  vibiation  thus  I  always  more: 
This  who  can  view,  and  not  be  forced  to  love  f 
Hail  I  charming  self  I  by  whose  prosperous  aid. 
My  form  in  all  its  glory  stands  display'd: 
Be  present,  still;  with  insi)iration  kind. 
Let  the  same  faithful  colois  paint  the  mind. 

Like  all  mankind,  wit'x  vanity  I'm  blessed. 
Conserves  of  wit  I  nevsr  yet  possessed. 
To  strong  desires  my  heart  an  easy  prey, 
Oft  feels  their  force,  but  never  owns  their  sway. 
This  hour,  perhaps,  as  death  I  hate  my  foe  ; 
The  next  I  wonder  why  I  should  do  so. 
Though  poor,  the  rich  I  view  with  careless  eyej 
Scorn  a  vain  oath,  and  hate  a  serious  lie. 
I  ne'er  for  satire,  torture  common  sense ; 
Nor  show  my  wit  at  God's  nor  man's  expense. 
Harmless  I  live,  unknowing  and  unknown ; 
Wish  well  to  all,  and  yet  do  good  to  none. 
Unmerited  contempt  I  hate  to  bear; 
Yet  on  my  faults,  like  others,  am  severe. 
Dishonest  flames  my  bosom  never  fire : 
The  bad  I  pity,  and  the  good  admire : 
Fond  of  the  muse,  to  her  devote  my  days, 
And  scribble,  not  for  pudding,  but  for  praise. . 

Tljese  careless  lines  if  any  virgin  hears. 
Perhaps  in  pity  to  my  joyless  years. 
She  may  consent  a  generous  flame  to  own ; 
And  I  no  longer  sigh  the  nights  alone. 
But,  should  the  fair,  affected,  vain  or  nice. 
Scream  with  the  fears  inspired  by  frogs  or  mie« 
Cry,  "Save  us.  Heaven  I  a  spectre,  not  a  man  I'' 
Her  hartahorn  snatch,  or  interp"^  her  fan: 


•  COIXECTED   POEMS.  360 

If  1  my  tender  overture  repeat, 
O I  may  my  vows  her  kind  reception  meet ; 
May  she  new  graces  on  my  fonn  bestow, 
And  with  tall  honors  dignify  my  brow. 


EPITAPH,  ON  A  FAVORITE  LAP-DOO 

I  never  barked  when  out  of  season; 

I  never  bit  without  a  reason  ; 

I  ue'er  insultod  weaker  brother; 

Nor  wronged  by  force  nor  fraud  another. 

Though  brutes  are  placed  a  rank  below, 

Happy  for  man,  could  he  say  so. 


THE  YOUNO. 

BT    nUNCKS   BROWIf. 

The  world  may  believe  in  the  wisdom  time  teachei^ 

And  trust  in  its  truth  as  the  ancnor  of  age, 
But  man}'  and  cold  is  the  winter  that  reaches 

Not  only  the  head,  but  tlie  heart  of  the  sage. 
There  are  lights  on  the  first  steps  of  life  that  awaken. 

Oh,  never  again  on  the  far  journey  flung. 
But  true  to  the  wisdom  our  years  have  forsaken. 

And  bright  in  their  wrecks  are  the  schemes  of  the  yuung 

As  hearth-light  illumes  the  dark  eve  of  December. 

Affliction  may  beam  through  the  winter  of  yearn 
But  will  not  the  miser  in  silence  remember 

Some  brow  that  still  bound  with  his  roses  ap[>earal 
Alas  I  for  the  dust  and  the  change  may  pass  over 

The  step  and  the  tone  to  our  memory  that  clung— 
But  time  hath  no  shadow  that  bright  track  to  cover. 

And  life  hath  no  love  like  the  love  of  the  young 


370  BKAUTIES   OF   THE   BLIND. 

Remains  there  a  mine  unexplored  bnt  believed  in, 

Where  lies  the  lost  gold  of  our  days  at  the  goal — 
Hath  friendship  a  glance  that  she  ne'er  was  deceived  in, 

Oh  I  they  fall  from  us  early,  those  stars  of  the  soul  I 
^ave  we  trusted  the  light,  have  we  toil'd  for  the  treasure, 

Tliough  dimness  and  doubt  o'er  the  searcher's  path  hung— 
And  oh,  could  we  pour  to  Time's  truth  the  full  measure 

Of  trust  that  is  found  in  the  faith  of  the  young  I 

Thou  dreamer  of  age,  there  were  themes  of  proud  story, 

And  song  that  rose  on  thee  like  stars  from  the  sea, 
Old  Time  hath  no  scythe  for  the  plight  of  their  glory — 

But  how  hath  that  glory  departed  from  thee  I 
Thy  soul  j'ields  no  more  to  the  spell  of  their  splendor. 

The  tones  it  sent  forth  when  the  lyre  was  new  strung- 
There  are  echoes  still  there  for  tlie  brave  and  the  tender. 

But  none  such  as  gush  from  the  hearts  of  the  young. 

Or  say,  have  they  pass'd  from  the  paths  of  thy  journey, 

The  miss'd  among  thousands,  tlie  mourn'd-for  apart — 
From  the  toil,  from  the  tumult  of  life  dost  thou  tui-n  thee, 

At  times  to  revisit  the  tombs  of  the  heart? 
Green,  green,  in  the  leaf-fall  of  years  will  they  greet  thee, 

If  fill'd  by  the  flowers  in  thy  home-shade  that  sprung — 
And  blessed  are  the  lessons  of  love  that  will  meet  thee 

Fr<>m  mem'ries  laid  up  in  the  graves  of  the  young 

Brig  .t  8})ring  of  the  spirit,  so  soon  passing  from  it, 

TI  ou  know'st  no  return,  and  we  ask  thee  not  back— 
For  who  that  hath  reach'd  e'en  the  snows  of  the  summit; 

AV  ould  wish  to  retrace  all  the  thorns  of  his  track  ? 
And  thorns,  it  may  be,  'mid  the  verdure  have  found  us — 

Deep,  deep  have  they  pierced,  though  the  pung^be  unsung 
But  oh,  /or  the  dew  of  that  day-spring  around  us 

Once  more,  as  it  falls  on  the  paths  of  the  young  I 


COLLKOTED   POEMS.  37? 

THE  GOD  OF  THE  WORLD 

BT   FRANCIS    BBOWK. 

The  gray  of  the  desert's  dawn 

Had  tinged  that  mighty  mound 
That  stands  as  the  tomb  of  Babj'Ion, 

On  her  ancient  river's  bound — 
For  the  land  hath  kept  nu  trace  beside 
Of  the  old  Chaldean's  power  and  prid« 

Upon  that  lonely  height, 

To  mark  the  morning  climb 
The  skie^  of  his  native  solitude, 
The  genius  of  the  desert  stood. 

And  saw  the  conqueror  Time 
Approach  on  pinions  swift  and  dim. 
But  ever  welcome  was  he  to  him. 

For  his  journey  left  no  track 

On  the  long  untrodden  sand- 
No  human  hopes  or  homes  were  ther«, 
No  blooming  face  or  flowing  hair. 

To  fear  his  withering  hand ; 
And  the  genius  greeted  him  who  made 
So  wide  the  bounds  of  his  scepter's  shade 

They  spoke  of  their  ancient  swav. 

Of  the  temples  rich  and  vast 
That  mouldered  in  their  sight  away ; 

And  the  scorn  of  ages  passed 
O'er  the  desert-dweller's  lip  and  brow. 
As  he  said—  "  What  gods  do  they  worship  now  I " 

The  father  of  the  years 

Looked  up  to  the  rising  sun. 
And  said —  "  In  the  bounds  his  path  surround*, 

There  reigns  no  god  but  one : 
All  faith  beside  hath  grown  faint  and  eol<L 
The  only  god  in  the  world  is  gold. 


372  BKAUTrKS    OF   THE    BLmi>. 

"'Tis  gold  in  the  city  proud, 

'Tis  gold  in  the  hamlet  low, 
To  it  they  kneel  with  the  bridal  vail. 

And  the  mourner's  gaib  of  woe — 
And  chiklliood's  joy,  and  youth's  bright  hair. 
And  the  peace  of  age  are  offered  there. 

"  I  stood  on  Nimrod's  tower. 

When  it  rose  to  meet  the  stars> 
And  the  boundless  pride  and  the  em  >iie  wide 

Of  tlie  world's  first  conquerors, 
Brought  tribute  to  the  irods  of  old — 
But  they  ne'er  were  served  like  that  mighty  i;ol  J I 

"  They  praise  the  christian's  God, 
And  they  build  him  temples  fair ; 

The  prayer  is  made,  and  the  creed  is  said— 
But  gold  is  honored  there  ; 

For  they  bear  from  tlie  holy  place  no  siga 
That  tella  of  a  worship  more  divine. 

"  Still  are  the  temples  raised 

To  the  God  of  light  and  song. 
For  many  scorn,  and  some  are  borne 

By  the  tides  of  life  along, 
Who  oft  in  their  weariness  look  back 
To  the  light  they  left  in  that  chosen  track. 

"In  groves  and  crowded  marts, 
I  have  sought  love's  shrines  in  vain. 

Yet  it  may  be  that  in  silent  hearts 
Their  ruins  still  remain — 

But  scorch'd  by  fire,  and  stain'd  with  Utuvs, 

And  buried  deep  in  the  dust  of  yeai-s." 

"And  has  the  world  grown  old 
In  vain  f  "  said  the  shadowy  sage, 

"And  come  at  length  to  the  age  of  gold, 
Bat  not  to  the  golden  age  ? 


COLLECTED   POKM8.  373 

lb  this  the  fruit  of  her  latter  daja, 
From  the  gather'd  love  of  centurie«| 
And  piled  up  wisdom  of  the  past, 
To  bow  to  her  very  dust  at  last  I  " 


THE  ECLIPSK* 


BT    KRANCE3    BSOWN. 


Watchers  are  on  the  earth  ;  and  o'er  the  sky 

Strange  darkness  gathers,  like  a  funeral  pall. 
Shrouding  the  summer  day,  while  stars,  that  Ii« 

Far  in  the  de]>th  of  heaven,  rekindle  all 
Tlieir  faded  fires.     But  where  is  now  the  sun, 

That  arose  so  glorious  on  the  Al]>s  to-day  < 
Methinks  his  journey  short  and  early  done. 

Not  thus  his  wont  to  leave  fair  Italy 
Not  thus  so  near  the  skirts  of  rosy  Jimet 
Why  is  the  midnight  come  before  tlia  noon  t 

Night,  but  not  silence,  for  old  Pavia  speaka. 

As  with  the  voice  of  nnforgotten  years, 
When  victory  was  her's.     What  now  awake* 

Such  music  in  the  fallen  land  of  fears  I 
Is  it  some  ancient  echo  in  her  hearty 

Surviving  Roman  power  and  Gothic  gold  I 
Or,  glorious  dream,  that  might  not  all  depart — 

The  memory  of  brave  battles  won  of  old — 
That  wakes  the  pealing  of  that  Joyous  cheer. 
Which  the  far  mountains  answer  deeply  clear  t 

•  I)a  tag  the  ec11i«e  of  the  «an  which  ooennvd  in  tiie  end  of  Jaljr,  IMi,  Um  em- 
tons  of  Tavia  asseiubled  tn  ni'i^rltiiilM.  In  the  piincip*!  mjoua  for  the  pnrjioM  ct 
wltnc ix^ng  the  iilipnnit.uaon ;  and  in  the  mliist  of  the  deepest  darlineM,  wh«a  the 
inoun  luid  stars  were  plainly  visible,  the  whole  ooooirane  bant  Into  une  rtmiillaa^ 


374-  BEA-UTIKS  OF  THE  BLIND. 

Or,  hath  the  gathered  city's  mighty  voice  • 

The  queen  of  night  amid  her  trophies  hailed. 
As  conqueror  of  the  sun  ?     Could  she  rejoice 

To  see  the  splendor  of  his  presence  vailed. 
Who  walked  the  heavens  in  unshared  majesty, 

Since  Time  was  born,  the  brightest  and  the  first 
Of  thousand  gods : —  still  glorious  on  his  way, 

As  when  through  ancient  night  his  chariot  burst. 
And  swept  the  circuit  of  those  cloudless  skies, 
That  yet  heard  only  starry  harmonies  f 

Not  so  rejoiced  the  Grecian  legions,  led 

By  great  Iskander.  to  the  Persian  shore  ; 
No  so  Ceoropia's  host.     But  days  of  dread 

Are  past — the  twilight  of  the  world  is  o'er. 
With  all  its  shadows.     Pavia,  from  thy  walls 

We  hear  the  spirit  of  our  brighter  days 
Proclaim  to  Alpine  huts  and  Roman  halls. 

The  morn  that  met  the  sage  or  prophet's  gaze, 
Tlirough  the  far  dimness  of  that  long  eclipse, 
Whose  mighty  darkness  sealed  great  Galileo's  lipC 


AUTUMN. 

BT   FBANOSa   BKOWN. 

Oh,  welcome  to  the  corn-clad  slope. 

And  to  the  laden  tree. 
Thou  promised  autumn  ;  for  the  hope 

Of  nations  turned  to  thee. 
Through  all  the  hours  of  splendor  past, 

With  summer's  bright  career ; 
And  we  see  thee  on  thy  throne  at  last, 

Crowned  monarch  of  the  year ! 

Tliou  comest  with  the  gorgeous  flowers 

That  make  the  roses  dim. 
With  morning  mists  and  sunny  hoan. 

And  wild  bird's  harvest  hymn  ; 


OOLLECIKD   POEMS.  J?75 

Thou  comest  with  the  might  of  floodn, 

The  glow  of  moonlit  skies, 
And  the  glory  flung  on  fading  woods, 

Of  thousand  mingled  djec  I 

But  never  seem'd  thy  steps  so  bright 

On  Europe's  ancient  shore. 
Since  faded  from  tlie  poet's  sight. 

That  golden  age  of  yore ;  ^ 

For  early  harvest-home  hath  poured 

Its  gladness  on  the  hearth. 
And  the  joy  that  lights  the  princely  board 

Hath  reached  the  peasant's  hearth. 

O  Thou,  whose  silent  bounty  flows 

To  bless  the  sower's  art^ 
With  gifts  that  ever  claim  from  ui» 

The  harvests  of  the  heart — 
If  thus  thy  goodness  crowns  the  year. 

What  shall  the  glory  be. 
When  all  thy  harvest,  whitening  here, 

Is  gathered  home  to  thee  I 


FAREWELL  TO  THE  FLOWEBa 

BT   r&ANCKS   BROWK. 

Farewell  I  farewell  I  bright  children  of  the  ran. 

Whose  beauty  rose  around  our  patl^where'er 
We  wander'd  forth  since  vernal  days  began— 

The  glory  and  the  garland  of  the  year. 
Ye  came,  the  children  of  the  spring's  bright  promt 

Ye  crown'd  the  summer  in  her  path  of  light; 
And  now  when  autumn's  wealth  is  passing  from  lu. 

We  gaze  upon  your  parting  boon,  as  bright 
And  dearer  far  than  summer's  richeat  hue — 
Sweet  flowers,  adieu! 


373  BEAUTIES    OF   THE    BLIND. 

You  will  return  again ;  the  early  beams 

Of  spring  will  wake  ye  from  your  wintry  sleep, 
By  the  still  fountains  and  the  shiaing  streams, 

That  through  the  green  and  leafy  woodlands  sweep ; 
Ye  will  return  again,  to  cheer  the  bosoms 

Of  the  deep  valleys,  by  old  woods  o'erhung, 
With  the  fresh  fragrance  of  your  opening  blossoms, 

To  be  the  joy  and  treasure  of  the  young — 
With  birds  from  the  far  lands,  and  sunny  hours, 
Ye  will  return,  sweet  flowers. 

But  when  will  they  return,  our  flowers  that  fell 

From  life's  blanch'd  garland  when  its  bloom  was  new 
And  left  but  the  dim  memories  that  dwell 

In  silent  hearts  and  homes?     The  summer's  dew 
And  summer's  sun,  with  all  their  balm  and  brightness, 

May  fall  on  deserts  or  on  graves  in  vain ; 
But  to  the  locks  grown  dim  with  early  whiteuesd, 

What  spring  can  give  the  sable  back  again, 
Or  to  the  early  wither'd  heart  restore 
Its  perish'd  bloom  once  moief 

In  vain,  in  vain — ^years  come  and  years  depart — 

Time  hath  its  changes,  and  the  world  its  tears; 
And  we  grow  old  in  frame,  and  gray  in  heart — 

Seeking  the  grave  through  many  hopes  and  fears 
But  still  the  ancient  earth  renews  around  us 

Her  faded  flowers,  though  life  renews  no  more 
The  bright  but  early  broken  ties  that  bound  us. 

The  garlands  that  our  blighted  summers  wore: 
Birds  to  the  trees,  and  blossoms  to  the  bowers 
Return — but  not  life's  flowers ! 

Thus  sang  the  bard,  when  autumn's  latest  gold 
Hung  on  the  woods,  and  summer's  latest  bloom 

Was  fading  fast,  as  winter,  stern  and  coll. 
Came  from  his  northern  home  of  clouds  and  gloou^ 


COLLECTED   POEMS.  877 

Bat  from  the  dying  flowers  a  voice  seem'd  breathing 
Of  higher  hopes;  it  whisper'd  sweet  and  low — 

"When  spring  again  her  sunny  smile  ie  wreathing, 
We  will  return  to  thee — but  thou  must  go 

To  seek  life's  blighted  blossoms  on  that  shora 
Where  dowers  can  fade  no  morel  " 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  JAOELLONS. 

BT    FBANOKS    BROWK 

**0h,  minstrel,  wake  thy  harp  once  mof  «^ 

For  winter's  twilight  falls, 
And  coldly  dim  it  darkens  o'er 

My  lonely  heart  and  halls : 
But  memories  of  my- early  home 

Around  me  gather  fast — 
For  still  with  twilight  shadows  oome 

The  shadows  of  the  past. 

**Then  wake  thy  lyre,  my  faithful  bard^ 

And  breathe  again  for  me 
The  songs  that  in  my  land  was  heard. 

While  3'et  that  land  was  free 
The  lays  of  old  romantic  times. 

When  hearts  and  swords  were  trti»— 
They  will  recall  the  dazzling  dreams 

That  youth  and  childhood  knew." 

T  was  thux  the  noble  matron  spake 

To  one  whose  tuneful  strains 
Could  win  her  exiled  spirit  back 

To  Poland's  pleasant  plains ; 
But  Quw  did  memory's  wizard-wand 

Far  distant  scenes  portray, 
As  thus  the  minstrel  of  the  land 

Awoke  her  lyre  and  lay  : 


376  BEAUTIES   OF   THE   BLIND. 

Tlie  shout  hath  ceased  in  Volla's  field, 

But  still  its  echoes  ring 
With  the  last  thunder-burst  that  haii'd 

Sarmatia's  chosen  king. 
For  young  Jagellon  now  ascends 

His  father's  ancient  throne ; 
Yet  still  the  chosen  monarch  stands 

Uncrown'd — ^butnot  alone! 

"A  lovely  form  is  by  his  side, 

A  hand  is  clasp'd  in  his, 
Tliat  well  might  be  a  monarch's  brid«^ 

Even  in  an  hour  like  this ; 
For  never  fairer  form  was  seen 

In  saint's  or  poet's  dreams, 
Nor  ever  shone  a  nobler  mein 

In  Poland's  princely  dames. 

"  Oh,  many  a  princely  dame  is  there. 

And  many  a  noble  knight — 
The  flower  of  Poland's  famed  and  fair— 

The  glory  of  her  might. 
But  there  is  pride  in  every  face, 

And  wrath  in  every  tone. 
As  on  that  fair  young  brow,  their  gazA 

Of  gather'd  scorn  is  thrown. 

"  There  came  an  ancient  senator, 

With  firm  aud  stately  tread. 
And  to  the  silent  monarch  there 

In  courtly  phrase  he  said : 
'The  love  that  cannot  grace  a  throne 

A  king  should  cast  aside — 
Then  let  Jagellon  reign  alone. 

Or  choose  a  royal  bride.* 

"Tlie  monarch  yet  more  closely  claap'il 
Tliat  small 'and  snowy  hand  ; 

Then  like  a  knightly  warrior  grasp'd 
Hie  own  unrivall'd  brand; 


COLLECTED  POEMS.  ^79 

And  from  his  dark  eye  flash'd  the  prid« 

Of  all  his  martial  Una, 
As — *By  my  father's  sword,'  he  cried, 

'Such  choice  shall  ne'er  be  mine  : 

"'My  land  hath  seen  her  ancient  cro^m 

Bestow'd  for  many  an  age. 
While  other  nations  have  bow'd  down 

To  kingly  heritage; 
And  now  the  crown  she  freely  gave^ 

I  render  back  as  free ; 
For,  if  unshared  by  her  I  love. 

It  shines  no  more  for  me.*  * 

'He  said — but  from  the  throng  arose, 

Ere  yet  his  speech  was  done, 
A  wilder,  louder  cheer  than  those 

That  told  of  conquests  won — 
When  far  in  many  a  famous  field. 

Through  long,  victorious  years. 
O'er  Tartar  bow  and  Paynim  shield, 

lie  led  the  Polish  speara 

"And  thus  they  said,  'The  flower  whoa«  worth 

Inspired  a  soul  so  great 
With  love  like  this,  whate'er  her  birth. 

Should  be  a  monarch's  mate 
And  as  thy  tameless  heart  waa  found 

To  love  and  honor  true — 
Oil,  early  tried  and  far  renowned. 

Be  true  to  Poland,  too  I ' " 

The  minstrel  ceased,  and  with  a  sigh. 

That  noble  matron  said — 
"Alas,  for  Europe's  chivalry — 

How  hath  its  glory  fled!  , 

Perchance  in  sylvan  grove  or  glen. 

Such  faithful  love  is  known. 
But  when  will  earth  behold  again 

Its  truth  so  near  a  throne  t " 


380  BEAUTIES    OF   THE   BLIND. 


THE  SPECTRE  OF  THE  HEARTH. 

BT    FBANOES    BROWN. 

Old  Europe  boasts  of  the  bi'oad  low  lands 

She  won  from  the  western  miain ; 
But  the  wasting  wave  and  the  whelniing  sands 

Are  winning  them  back  again  : 
Long  and  fierce  is  the  war  they  wage 
And  the  coqquest  groweth  from  age  to  age. 

The  song  of  the  billows'  sounding  march. 

Is  heard  where  the  anthem  rose 
O'er  sculptured  column  and  stately  arch 

The  dreary  sand-hill  grows, 
And  fills  the  waste  of  the  sterile  shore, 
Where  corn  was  bent  by  the  breeze  of  3'ore. 

No  trace  doth  tbe  bare,  gray  summit  keep 

Of  buried  spire  or  dome; 
But  still,  'tis  said,  where  the  drifted  heap 

Lies  high  o'er  a  peasant's  home, 
The  place  of  the  hearth  may  yet  be  known 
To  wanderers  forth  in  the  twilight  lone. 

For  there,  when  stars  through  the  deep'ning  gray. 

Shine  far  over  wave  and  height. 
Or  their  crests  give  back  the  ruddy  ray 

Of  the  hamlet-fires  of  night, 
A  spectre-woman  pours  her  woe 
O'er  the  cold  and  the  quench'd  of  long  ago. 

Old  is  the  tale — aye,  old  and  strange 

As  the  peasant's  lore  of  dreams; 
Yet  how  hath  it  kept  through  fear  and  changs 

That  changeless  truth,  which  seems, 
In  the  power  of  its  undecaying  proof, 
A  golden  thread  in  the  rustic  woof  1 


OOLLECrED   POEMS.  .  381 

Are  there  not  hearts — the  worn,  the  wise — 

That  ever  in  vain  return 
.To  some  spot  where  their  old  love-memory  Ubb, 

Though  they  only  come  to  mourn 
The  dust  and  the  del^ris  piled  between 
Their  soulii  and  the  rest  they  might  have  seen  I 


The  sands  I  oh,  the  severing  sands  upfliing 
By  the  world's  wide  sea  of  fears  I 

And  the  heart,  in  its  toiling  silence  stung 
By  the  solitude  of  years  I 

And  the  lights  that  shine  on  its  lonely  waya^ 

At  times,  through  the  twilight-fall  of  days  I 

The  winters  wane^  and  the  rains  grow 
With  the  wrecks  of  wave  and  mind ; 

But,  oh  I  were  the  dust  less  deep  below. 
And  the  stars  above  more  kind. 

How  many  a  dream  by  the  hearth  might  rest, 

Tliat  now  returns  but  a  spectre  guest. 


THE  LONELY  MOTHER. 

BY  KRANCKS  BROWN. 

My  home  is  not  what  it  hath  been. 
When  the  leaves  of  other  years  were  green. 
Though  its  hearth  is  bright  and  its  chambers  fa» 
And  the  summer  beams  fall  lightly  there  ; 
But  they  fall  no  more  on  the  clear  young  <»y«. 

And  the  lip  of  pleasant  song, 
And  the  gleaming  night  tiiat  wont  to  lie 

On  the  curia  bo  dark  and  long. 


382   .  BEAUTIES   OF   THE   BLIJSin. 

Oh,  pleasant  is  the  voice  of  youth,  ^ 

For  it  tells  of  the  heart's  confiding  truth 
And  keeps  that  free  and  fearless  tone, 
That  ne'er  to  our  after  years  is  known : 
I  hear  it  rise  in  each  hamlet-cot. 

O'er  evening  prayer  and  page ; 
But  woe  for  the  hearth  that  heareth  nought 

But  the  dreary  tones  of  age. 

The  glow  is  gone  from  our  winter  blaze. 

And  the  light  hath  pass'd  from  our  summer  days  ; 

And  our  dwelling  hath  no  household  now 

But  the  sad  of  heart  and  the  gray  of  brow  . 

For  the  young  lies  low  'neath  the  church-yard  trei\ 

Where  the  grass  grows  green  and  wild; 
And  thy  mother's  heart  is  sad  for  thee, — 

My  lost,  min«  only  child ! 

But  a  wakening  music  seems  to  flow 

On  me  from  the  years  of  long  ago. 

As  thy  babe's  first  words  come  sweet  and  clear 

Like  a  voice  from  thy  childhood  to  mine  ear 

And  her  smile  beams  back  on  my  soul  again. 

Thy  beauty's  early  mora, 
Ere  thine  eye  grew  dim  with  tears  or  pain, 

Or  thy  lovely  lucks  were  shorn. 

Alas !   for  the  widow'd  eyes  that  trac« 

Their  early-lost  in  that  orphan  face 

What  after-light  will  his  memory  mark, 

Like  the  dove  that  in  spring-time  sought  her  ark 

For  long  in  that  far  and  better  land 

Were  her  spirit's  treasures  laid ; 
And  she  might  not  stay  from  its  golden  strand 
For  the  love  of  hearts  that  fade. 

But  woe  for  her  on  whose  path  may  shine 

The  light  of  no  mother's  love  but  mine ; 

Oh,  well  if  that  lonely  path  lead  on 

To  the  land  where  her  mother's  steps  have  gone — 


OOLI.EOTED  POEMS.  ggft 

The  lao.i  where  the  aged  find  their  youth, 
And  the  young  no  whit'ning  hair: 

Oil  I  saf-i,  my  child,  from  both  time  and  death- 
Let  us  hope  to  meet  thee  there. 


THE  FRIEND  OF  OUR  DARKER  DATSL 

BT   nUNOBB    BROWN. 

Twas  said,  when  the  world  was  fresh  and  young. 

That  the  friends  of  earth  were  few ; 
And  shrines  have  blazed,  and  harps  have  rung. 

For  the  hearts  whose  love  was  true  I 
And  say,  when  the  furrowing  tracks  of  time 

Lie  deep  on  the  old  earth's  brow, 
llie  faith  so  prized  in  her  early  prime — 

Shall  we  hope  to  find  it  nowf 

It  may  be  found,  like  the  aloe's  bloom 

In  the  depth  of  western  woods. 
To  which  a  hundred  springs  may  come. 

Yet  wake  not  its  starry  buds ; 
But  if,  through  the  mists  of  wintry  skiea, 

It  shine  on  life's  weary  ways — 
What  star  in  the  summer  heavens  will  rise 

Like  that  friend  of  our  darker  days  ? 

We  know  there  are  hands  and  smiles  to  great 

Our  steps  on  the  summit  fair; 
But  lone  are  the  climber's  weary  feet, 

Where  the  steep  lies  bleak  and  bare. 
For  some  have  gain'd  far  heights  and  streams. 

To  their  sight  with  morning  crown'd; 
But  the  sunrise  shed  on  their  hearts'  first  dreaiua 

And  its  light,  they  never  found  I 


384  BEAUTIES   OF   THE   BLIND. 

Yet,  O  for  the  bright  isles  seen  afar, 

When  our  sails  were  first  unfurl' <1, 
And  the  glance  that  once  was  the  guiding  star 

Of  our  green  unwithered  worldl 
And,  0  for  the  voice  that  spake  in  love, 

Ere  we  heard  the  cold  world's  praise; 
And  one  gourd  in  our  promised  noon,  to  prove 

Like  the  friends  of  our  darker  days  1 

Alas  I  we  have  missed  pure  gems  that  lay 

Where  the  rock  seemed  stern  and  cold ; 
And  our  search  hath  found  but  the  hidden  clay, 

Where  we  dreamt  of  pure  bright  gold. 
And  dark  is  the  night  of  changing  years 

That  falls  on  tlie  trust  of  youth, 
Till  the  thorns  grow  up  and  the  tangled  tares 

In  the  stronghold  of  its  truth. 

The  shrines  of  our  household  gods,  peruhanc« 

We  have  seen  their  brightness  wane  ; 
And  the  love  which  the  heart  can  give  but  onc«. 

It  may  be  given  in  vain  ; 
But  still  from  the  graves  of  better  hopes — 

From  the  depths  of  memory's  maze. 
One  blessing  springs  to  the  heart  and  lips, 

For  the  friend  of  our  darker  days. 


WE  ARE  GROWING  OLD. 

BY    FRANCES    BEOWN. 

We  are  growing  old — how  the  thought  will  n9« 

When  a  glance  is  backward  cast 
On  some  long-remembered  spot  that  lies 

In  the  silence  of  the  past : 
It  may  be  the  slirine  of  our  early  vowa, 

Or  the  tomb  of  early  tears  ; 
But  it  seems  like  a  far-off  isle  to  u^ 

In  the  stormy  sea  of  years. 


CHiLLECTKI)    POKMB.  88f 

(ihi  wide  and  wild  are  the  waves  thai  part 

Our  stops  from  its  greenness  now  • 
Vnd  we  miss  the  joy  of  many  a  hearts 

^nd  the  ligiit  of  many  a  brow  ; 
'."'or  deep  o'er  many  a  stately  hark 

Have  the  whelming  billows  rolled, 
That  steered  with  us  from  that  early  mark — 

Oh  !   friends,  we  are  growing  old  I 

O'.d  in  the  dimness  and  the  dust 

Of  our  daily  toils  and  cares, 
Old  in  the  wrecks  of  love  and  trust 

Which  onr  burdened  memor-    bears. 
Rach  form  may  wear  to  the  passing  gaze. 

The  bloom  of  life's  fresluiess  3'et, 
And  l>eanis  may  brighten  our  latter  iaya, 

Which  the  morning  never  niei.. 

Bui  oil  I   the  changes  we  have  seen 

In  the  far  and  winding  way-:- 
Tlie  graves  in  our  path  tiiat  have  grown  gr«ex 

And  the  locks  that  liave  grown  gray  I 
Tlie  winters  still  on  our  own  may  spare 

The  sable  or  tiie  gold  ; 
But  we  saw  their  snows  upon  brighter  li*ir— 

And,  friends,  we  are  growing  old  ! 

We  have  gain'd  the  world's  cold  wisdom  ao 

We  Imve  learn'd  to  pause  and  fear; 
But  where  are  the  living  founts,  wlmse  flow 

Was  a  joy  of  heart  to  hear! 
We  have  won  the  wealth  of  many  a  clime. 

And  the  lore  of  many  a  page  ; 
But  where  is  the  hope  that  saw  in  Timr 

But  it«  boundless  heritage! 

iVjll  it  come  again  when  the  violet  wak«M, 

An<l  the  woods  their  youth  renew  • 
We  have  stood  in  the  light  of  sunny  brakM. 

Where  .he  bloom  was  de«  p  and  blue; 


38{)  BEAUTIES    OF    THK    1JLIN1>. 

And  our  souls  might  joy  in  the  spring-time  thea^ 

But  the  joy  was  faint  and  cold  ; 
For  it  ne'er  could  give  us  the  youth  again 

Of  hearts  that  are  growing  old. 


SONGS  OF  OUR  LAND. 


BT    FRANCF.S    BROWN. 


Songs  of  our  land,  ye  are  with  us  forever ; 

The  power  and  the  splendor  of  thrones  pass  away, 
out  yours  is  the  might  of  some  far-flowing  river, 

Through  summer's  bright  roses  or  autumn's  decay. 
We  treasure  each  voice  of  the  swift-passing  ages, 

And  truth,  which  Time  writetli  on  leaves  or  on  sand  : 
Ve  bring  us  tb"  ^''ight  thoughts  of  poets  and  sages, 

And  keep  them  among  us,  old  songs  of  our  land  I 

I'he  liards  may  go  down  to  the  place  of  tlieir  slumbers. 

The  lyre  of  ths  chamber  be  hushed  in  the  grave ; 
but  far  in  the  ftiture  the  power  of  their  numbers 

Shall  kindle  the  hearts  of  our  faithful  and  brave, 
It  will  waken  an  echo  in  souls  deep  and  lonely  ; 

Like  voices  of  reeds  by  the  summer  breeze  fann'd  ; 
It  will  call  up  a  spirit  for  freedom,  when  only 

Her  breathings  are  heard  in  the  songs  of  our  land  I 

For  they  keep  a  record  of  those,  the  true-hearted, 

Who  fell  with  the  cause  they  had  vowed  to  maintain  ; 
riiey  show  us  bright  shadows  of  glory  departed. 

Of  love  that  grew  cold,  and  the  hope  that  was  vain. 
The  page  may  be  lost,  and  the  pen  long  forsaken. 

And  weeds  may  grow  wild  o'er  the  brave  heart  and  hand 
lint  ye  are  still  left,  when  all  else  hath  been  taken. 

Like  streams  in  the  desert,  sweet  songs  of  our  land  i 


coLLficrrKD  POBkfs.  387 

Songs  of  our  Innd  yo  have  followed  the  strKnj^r, 

W'itli  power  over  ocenn  and  desert  afar; 
Ye  liave  gone  with  our  wand'rcra  thro'  distance  and  danger 

And  gladden'd  their  path  like  a  home-guiding  stnr. 
With  the  breatli  of  our  mountains  in  summers  long  vanUli'd, 

And  visions  that  passed  like  a  wave  from  tlic  sand, 
With  hope  for  their  country  and  joy  for  her  baniah'tl. 

Ye  come  to  us  ever,  sweet  songs  of  our  land ! 

The  spring-time  may  come  with  the  song  of  her  glorj. 

To  bid  the  green  heart  of  the  forest  rejoice , 
But  the  pine  of  the  mountain,  though  blastc<l  and  hoary, 

And  the  rock  in  the  desert,  can  send  forth  a  voicfc. 
It  is  thus  in  their  truimph  for  deep  desolations ; 

While  ocean  wavos  roll,  or  the  mountains  shall  stuid 
Still,  hearts  that  are  bravest  and  best  of  the  nation* 

Shall  glory  and  live  in  the  son<^  of  their  land  I 


Hi/ 


THE  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

Santa  Barbara 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DAI 
STAMPED  BELOW. 


r 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FAOIITY 


A  A     00011 


3  051    7 


SlITY  ^ 


PPVHMMPPrapiMi 


